In the last few days I've been smelling blossoms on breezes--magnolia blossoms, mostly, but also just a hint of citrus. It's a little early yet for orange blossoms, but my anticipation is building, nonetheless.
So this morning I read a thin book of poetry called The Orangery by Gilbert Sorrentino. Each poem in the volume is about orange or oranges. Just what I needed today. It's full of delicious ironies about the impossibilities of orange (and it doesn't rhyme, of course).
An excerpt from "Variations 1"
Poetry must not be poured into molds
the man said, fighting an old battle
filled with wild alarums.
No one eats oranges
in anybody's poems
The image above is from a jaunt to Brooklyn in winter where outside an art gallery there was a bare tree hung with oranges. It delighted me--I am a fan of the ridiculous and unexpected.