Orange by Jane Kennedy Stuppin
One truth is the fruit.
The tide less ocean of orange,
the ripples of its landless shores.
Would you like a piece of my orange?
You know its limits. There is no vanishing point:
Only the pulp, the juice, the white seeds.
Einstein must have had a sense of taste for the orange.
Itís all relative to whose mouth eats which orange.
© 2005-2009 Per Contra: The International Journal of the Arts, Literature and Ideas