the impossibilities of citrine juices running sticky and sweet catch me off guard. i tear orange skin with my fingernails and zest fills my nostrils. biting into acid brightness, i feel as if i'm eating the sun from inside out. these tiny things, every day things, seem a personal miracle to me. it's a given for our mega marts and box stores to carry these warm weather fruits in rows and bags all full, made possible by modern shipment and genetic engineering perhaps. but every year i wait for the perfect orange, heavy in hand and as sweet as it is tart. like grace. heavy, impossible, divinely sweet, contradiction to this human mind. like oranges in winter.