Imbolc & Oranges

Winter kisses this place, too.
You don’t believe,
but last week, we scraped
frost from our windshields
and the oranges were killed.

It’s strawberry season,
and Plant City’s rise to
our lips.
We come home to hot
coffee and chocolate, treasures
from afar, paid in sweat
and blood: a net that
spans the globe.
We sweeten them with Florida
sugar, despite corn’s lobbying.
We wish for warmer days
(or revel in the chill).

Us? Our forge has sat quiet
in our garage until cold nights
brought it back to life,
and now we work in words
and steel, offerings to Neighbors,
friends, and Brigit.
It is the season
for Renaissance Faires.

There are no lambs for lambing,
but cold mornings catch
cattle huddled, breath clouds
steaming. The next morning
sees fog, clumped, along the highway.

It is Imbolc, even in Florida:
Miami, Tampa, Pensacola.
Light the fires
Key West to Tallahassee.
Our seasons shift slow
in the sculpted tropics of Orlando.
In Fort Myers, Gainesville, Jupiter,
we are home.

Creative Commons License
Imbolc & Oranges by Story Boyle is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 United States License.

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