Days litter the tree
ripe and heavy, golden oranges
plucked – at night I see
the little child, knees knocking
like twigs in the wind
it is the distance that surprises,
the ladder needed to reach out
and pluck, hold, bring close to the nose
smell and then the thumbs pushed in
the orange prised apart
juices everywhere, devoured then
until each half is a peel turned inside out
the flesh stuck to teeth, to hands.
The mind yearns until one day
the mind is marooned
in that tree, the world far down below
sometimes a fall; mind lands in the present.
Mother does that
and then slips away again, up into that tree
surrounded by oranges
leaving children stranded below
craning necks, watching her shrink
into her past and the future without.
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