My habit in December is to peel an orange
as I walk—bits of peel in my pockets—
pants that smell of Florida—and sometimes
approach a car at an intersection—
tap on the window—interrupt
the driver’s rapture of watching
for the green light of release—I’m sworn at
by most—flipped-off—or ignored
with the same passion I’m ignored by God—
but she rolled down her window
when I made the motion of a crank
with my hand—took the half I offered—
the sweetness of a warmer sky—
and ate the slices in front of me—with me—
as I my equal measure devoured—then left
our common life together—the only moment
of our eternal bond—the link
that will play out as a long string
between us, no matter what pleasure
is advanced by other days—we looked
at each other and ate bits of a world
making the most of the sun—of the light
that is blowing away into nothingness—
the moment so small, so precise,
it was easy to love everything
we knew of each other—I had a gift
and she had a desire
to accept that gift—we were whole—
we were cured—had advanced
the cause of being
ever so slightly along the path
it wanders with us, little bits of dust
caught in its hair.