Acme
The apex of an orange is the same,
a philosopher's allegory for humans.
In a world of metered verse and rhyme,
orange is an unlit shadow-show on Plato's cave—
pock-marked, blind, drying rind, lying in wait
to find its rhythm, sway its way into acceptance.
Slow dance on the walls of interrupted light,
hiding what's outside—inside itself a growing need
to see where sunlight is born, know itself in reflection
and know the name of a new day is Dawn.
No matter how perfect a form in the dark,
there's no substitute for a citrus kiss of vitamins
when the stone rolls away from an opening
to reveal the orange sun rise.
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