North Means Up

There was a lonely orange tree

At the edge of  the woods 

Where the scent of daffodils 

Was heavy, after the fresh rain-

I lingered there to look 

For the new oranges 

Just turning green from 

The unassuming white blossoms;

The quiet orchestra of the grove 

In a season lost in time.

It was not the only fruit tree 

But the only one with magic orbs

That were ancient, far away-

I could climb it and leave 

With more thorns than orbs.

The empty lot behind my back

Gave me reasons to hurry 

Haunted, roaming thoughts of

Grandmother's roses

And potions-

And I fall a hundred times 

Out of an orange tree 

Into the shed leaves of early summer.