She plucks the Seville orange,
bright, joyful color of a bumpy rind,
digging her fingers into its flesh.
Sprays of citrus flavor the air.
Heaps of curling skins
fall around her as she gently supremes
the white, pithy webs of encasement.
Juices dripping down her hands and wrist,
as she plops each one into the copper pot.
Blue flames flicker and beat the bitterness from her heart.
His sweetness is the measured touch.
Echoes of her youth, days of being free with dreams and possibilities.
Swirls of orange turn gold as passion erupts,
a slow churning of Vesuvius in the pale regions of her soul.
Cooled by his calming touch, secure and warm,
the blossoms of the fruit, the sweetness of his soul,
has warmed her marmalade heart.
Friday, April 20, 2018