Listen to poem:
Florida Oranges
Groves,
parallel patterned rows
(hardly higher than bushes),
dot and stretch up hillsides,
looking from a distance
much like cornrows
on the tight tan scalps
of hip young New York
subway riders.
Luscious fruits,
at closer range,
mimic setting suns
boldly drawn in crayon:
oranges evoke essence,
name their own color.
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