Orange Variations

   by David Chorlton


I
An early owner of our house
left the tool leaning
against the wall: long stem,
basket, and two prongs
with which to grip the fruit.
We begin in January
probing the foliage,
tugging and rustling until
an orange tumbles. Then we wait
for the scent in March
of blossoms and prepare for summer’s
deep watering. The tree’s thirst
and ours run a parallel course
to October, and October
melts into the cool
months of ripening when the colour
turns, the hawk comes back
to the neighbourhood sky, and towhees
scratch among the fallen leaves.

II
When they’re difficult to reach
and make us scratch our skin
when reaching for them,
oranges become naranjas
and make immigrants of our hands.

III
The outer leaves are brilliant
by daylight while
behind them are shadows
where sun cannot reach
and deeper still
in the heart of the trunk
is a silence
like that in the wake
of a Chinese gong being struck
when oranges were sour and wild.