The lobes of an orange are veined like the wings of a monarch butterfly.
I am reminded of musty rooms with sun-faded curtains
and, somewhere, the creak of a porch swing.
I taste sunshine and dust.
Flight patterns and flavors flit and drift
eternally shifting patches of light filtered
on threadbare carpet,
the eyeleted edge of a summer dress,
flash of discreet safety pin. A low sigh,
and I wipe, with an old cloth,
membranous pith from my fingers.
Listing eternally west, the golden ball shrinks,
slit by horizon’s serrated edge,
and opens to a surprisingly delicate red.
Lauren Scharhag is a writer of fiction and poetry. She is the recipient of the Gerard Manley Hopkins Award for poetry and a fellowship from Rockhurst University for fiction. She lives in the Florida Panhandle with her husband and three cats. To learn more about her work, visit: www.laurenscharhag.blogspot.com