Our oranges wouldn’t stay upon the trees
(The orchard had near 25, I think):
They’d roll off branches, bright, and ricochet.
Most fruit we ate came from the mulchy earth—
we didn’t let a single seed decay.
(It was all so long ago.)
Our oranges spotted orchard ground in winter.
Ours were navels, loud and sweet.
(You cannot near imagine just how sweet.)
So pretty, decorating the brown soil,
flashing oranges threatening to rot
unless you take them in your hand, peel, and
out orange-smell explodes, out splatters
honeyed, silky fire, and when you bite—
(We’d call their juice pure, liquid gold
and we were right.)
But, maybe, it wasn’t sunny flavor
that sweetened our ripe oranges to perfection.
Maybe it wasn’t nectar that enticed.
To me, the plucking from damp earth is sacred.
To me, the saving’s nothing but a rite.
The Student Movement is the official student newspaper of Andrews University. Opinions expressed in the Student Movement are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the editors, Andrews University or the Seventh-day Adventist church.