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.