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Lindsey OrangesCut one, the lace of acidrushes out, spills over your hands. You lick them, manners don't come into it. Orange. The first word you have heard that day enters your mind. Everybody then does what he or she wants; breakfast is casual. Slices, quarters, halves, or the whole hand holding an orange ball like the morning sun on a day of soft wind and no clouds which it so often is. "Oh, I always want to live like this, flying up out of the furrows of sleep, fresh from water and its sheer excitement, felled as though by a miracle at this first sharp taste of the day!" You're shouting, but no one is surprised. Here, there, everywhere on the earth thousands are rising and shouting with you, even those who are utterly silent, absorbed, their mouths filled with such sweetness. --Mary Oliver Other poems by Mary Oliver |
Sara Booth Mary Oliver William Blake e. e. cummings Thom Gunn |
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