An orange tree grows
alone in a public grove.
Slowly he stretches up
plucking one orange.
His wrinkled hands are worn
weathered by a brutal life.
It calms his heart peeling
fleshy squishy sweetness.
Each peel his hand performs
is delicately, neatly done.
Time is not a healer
he admits it is a stealer.
He practices mindful patience
savoring its scent and taste.
An orange assuages him
soothing his ripped psyche.
–by Maria Mocha © 2021
Maria Mocha's Creative Writing & Photography Blog 
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