Orange

Orange peel. Scent fresh but bitter,
tangible in taste and air. A circle in fruit
that dangles and is turned, twisted from
branch. The challenge to keep the 
peel whole, no break. Sink teeth into
sweet segments of dripping flesh.

Orange rust. A door, a gate. Age in crinkling 
metal, steel ancient with salt and sun and
seasons beating what thought strong. Orange
rust of a family home, a flake for each child
who flies the nest. Rusted crisped wings. Upon 
closer inspection the rust appears golden.

Not amber nor red,
neither start nor stop.
A forever-in-motion colour.

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