Tangerine

not very good.

stripped from the tree
and the shelter of leaves
before any time befalls
by the brazen few.

some fruit belongs
in the shade and the
whisper of night.

they tore back its
skin, opening raw
flesh expecting full sweetness.

sun scorches delicate sections
drying out vitality.
butterfly caresses flesh
staying more than moments.

the tangerine sits in cradle
of leaves, longing, longing,
for the tree, the blossoms besides.

yet the bloom is not cast out
the gardener cares amidst the
crude and brash.

nothing of the earth neglected
after so many expect perfection.
knowing what the gardener sees,
this quiet and gentle tangerine.