The Orange Tree

The butterflies rise from the fruit

born of the cogs and bones of an inquisitive mind.

Where is the winding key

that sets their flight in motion?

 

I have a secret, a wish

concealed in the pearl of the fruit.

It cannot be juiced, only revealed

when the veil is lifted.

 

Crack, goes the wood.

Crack, go the leaves,

leaving only the blossoms

to float down to your palm,

wingbeats fragile as they die.

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