Winter’s grim landscape is erased by this fruit —
round, plump, dimpled.
I dig my thumbs
deep into its navel,
rip it open
an explosion of sunshine.
Drops of amber nectar puddle onto the plate
as I finger out seeds, bring a gauze covered
segment into my mouth,
let it rest on my tongue,
absorb its heat, its humidity, its sun,
its picker
standing on a ladder plucking it off a tree
in some Florida orange grove.