about-to-be-oranges hanging in the air
so dark and far away
so close and lightly dancing by dew
it is new
It is brought here heavily
billowing
by thick trunks and green
light dancing across leaves
white trunks with garbage underneath
sweet mud summers and cold
crunching falls beneath
a moon and nothing more blue
a moment
half a moment inside another
inside a smell
recalled and forgotten like disappearing
mists among the grove
next to the barren lane which now hosts
holds bags of oranges
smaller than ever before
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