1.
Empty of sight you gave yourself away
to those
who were blind to your gift–
as you were. You.
They devoured your sweet juices,
spit out the pith and rind of you
as you did. You.
2.
Years went by. Watchful, rind-thick, rind-bitter,
you cradled the memory of your treasure-
buried it
in a mountain cave
guarded by the stench of dragon breath.
You did. You.
3.
Your sweet citrus selves, deprived
of light, of air
shriveled, curled their pithy threads
around your dwindling heart.
In your dank cave, you dreamed of orange groves–
the sun-drenched country of your becoming.
4.
Now, on this dappled mountainside
you’ve built your home.
Windows open wide to a curved horizon.
Skylights, for visiting stars and spilled constellations.
A floor and walls of hand-rubbed stone.
You made this. You.
5.
Strangers sometimes climb the rocky path
to your front door.
You welcome them with cool water,
oranges in a blue clay bowl.
You do not give yourself away.
You do not withhold.
6.
You know this, now. You were always
yours to give.
Yours, and more than yours-
to take, to bury
to hold, nourish, offer, radiate.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
