The slice of orange shines in the middle of
My blue plate like a sun on a hot summer’s day.
The outer edge, the rind, surrounded, inundated
By tiny effervescent bubbles, a pot of water just
Coming to a boil, as if the aromatic essence of
The orange is bubbling up, out through the
Creamy-yellow rind and into the zest.
Flipped over, the rind of my end-piece
Of orange now looks like a harvest moon
On a cool, blue October night. Bumps and craters
Tickle my fingertips as I touch the face of
The man on this moon. Black speckles
The orange, like pepper on mashed
Sweet potatoes or nutmeg on pumpkin pie.
The light glistens on the juicy side as I flip
It back over. It is a stained-glass window
With white leading between the pie-shaped
Wedges—old fashioned glass, the wavy, bubbly,
Hand-blown kind of medieval splendor that lives in
Notre Dame and Canterbury; but this stained glass
Rests on my desktop, and I am the only worshiper.
Now my view changes, and it’s the cross
Section of a tree—except the rings on this
Tree are radii of a circle instead of concentric
Rings like a pool. Even in this small globe
We can see how life is moving ever outward,
Branching out from the Center Stem instead of
Rippling round and round with no end.
What if life is like this slice of orange? What
If it’s more than just an orange fruit that tastes,
Looks, and smells like... an orange? What if the
Slice of life--a sun, a moon, stained glass--can give us
A glimpse into who we are…more than the mere
Description that we give ourselves. What if we, too,
Surpass our own expectations and potential into... More?