The Orange Tree

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

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