The orange tree blossoms once a year,
white and pure with petals
which fall to bear fruits
so rich in colour
that the seasons stop to stare
as the oranges sit quietly in the spring heat.
I like to watch the oranges grow
and drain the colour of those around them
with bright hues
and soft skin
and radiate the joy and stories untold
into bleak backgrounds
where words sit unspoken
while the oranges sing.
And here I stand
with orange juice spilling down my throat
and into my lungs
so sickly and sweet
but the landscape remains bleak
and the tender oranges refuse to grow
upon a branch which bears no blossom.
My attempt at the 115 work poetry challenge. Quite random but I like it :)