Oranges

Cut one, the lace of acid 
rushes 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. 

by Mary Oliver

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