Every year on Pearl Harbor Day, I like to tell the story of my late mother, who was picking oranges with her best friend Louise on December 7th, 1941, when they got the news that the Japanese had bombed the US Naval Base in Hawaii. Every year after, she picked the first orange of the season on the anniversary of this day. Now that she’s gone, I continue the tradition in her memory.
And now, with this poem, I salute my favorite winter fruit!
Oranges are loud.
Oranges are splashy.
They are not subtle.
They are not shy.
They may be as big as softballs,
but they consider themselves
miniature stars
small globes of fire
a reflection of the solar energy
that generates all life
on this planet.
Made in the image of the sun
they believe themselves to be
the dominant species
on Planet Earth.
Oranges are joyful.
Oranges live juicy.
They refuse to believe
they are not
a primary color.
Photo by Philippe Gauthier on Unsplash