Old oranges beneath my feet, pressed,
fermentation, sweet and thick,
stained up my legs,
I drink the wine.
In my happiness,
I walk up to the house,
and on the steps I fall, caught in a storm,
unsteady in my legs,
a gust thrusts my bod about,
unsteady in my feet.
Orange trees surround, surround,
eye to eye,
crowns upon the green,
branching out, I grab the air,
catch a grasp of leaves.
Wet leaves stick to my skin,
sweat through my skin.
Imprinted so, I am marked,
a blossom in my mouth,
praising the trees, praising the seed,
that pours through my lips.
Lilies in the windowsill and grapevines on the vane,
thorn bush catch me in my prance,
take chances with my life, I fall onto the fence,
cut through,
I remain gargoyled stiff,
a dusty ornament married to the vines.
In my session I am juiced,
made empty of my joy,
and I look up:
there's orange trees.
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