Jeans, socks, shirt, shirt, sweater, jacket, hat.
Open door. Trudge. Slip/ catch. Grumble.
What’s that? Over there. Is that a…?
It’s orange. It’s round. It’s an orange on the ground. In the snow?
In the street.
It’s ripe. It’s good. There’s another and another and one more.
What the hell?
Where am I? I’m in Minnesota. It’s 26 degrees and I’m holding a fruit of the womb.
A fruit of the homeland, taken for granted, now held sacred. And close.
Out of place, lost, and freezing to death. It came from a truck, I came from a plane.
We’ve traveled far, together we’re here, missing that southern land that bore us from the sand. So far away. So warm.
An orange in the snow is a frog in a pot on a stove. Comfortably numb, painfully unawares. It must be saved by someone who knows, who cares.