Seven a.m.:
High above the roofs,
the frost-lacquered
crane branch
holds a
plump, radiant
orange.
Hungry for warmth,
I grasp the vital
sphere and
slice it
into thick
wedges.
A paper towel on my lap, I
sink my teeth
into the morning glow:
calm,
juicy.
Sweetly sour.
Anna Piutti, Vicenza, Italy
This is a very atmospheric poem - you can almost taste that orange!
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed the Orange, and your company as we dined together. Very nice Poem.
ReplyDeleteI love small poems about small things :)
ReplyDelete