We used to run through the orange grove eyes shut tight, arms churning, trying to think like bats. Pretend to leap from tree to tree, breathless crouching jaguars. Stretch our backs on the warm earth, taste the orange air, blot out the stars with our hands, become the last survivors at the edge of the universe. Tonight the sky is cold, hard as diamond. I press my back to the ground feel its familiar warmth. The grove still seasons the air. Eyes open, hands behind head, looking up through true darkness, having survived too long at the edge of all things, I no longer desire to blot out the stars.
16 Monday Sep 2013
That is lovely 🙂 A really good poem!
Ronald E. Shields said:
Thank you Ina. I value your opinion because I have great respect and admiration for you as a poet.
Liberty of Thinking said:
How much did I miss something better than my own poems…
The end is absolute…
Winding Stream Press said:
Memories resurrect. I grew up on various Citrus ranches. The groves were one of my favorite places to play. Alas I wasn’t so peaceful as to simply lay in the dirt and look. My cousin and I raced down the furrowed rows as my Dad irrigated and slid in the mud. Lovely poem full of the senses -that of an orange grove always favors the air for me saying Home. The ending- perfect. The drinking in of stars as one moves onward through life.