Fresh

Thank you Sweet Life for the lady at the store who taught me how to pick our oranges. So long since I experienced cutting open an orange. The juice dripping down my fingers, lips and chin. Fresh. To feel fresh swirling and dribbling. The explosion of taste and sensations.

Thank you for the walk despite... No. I will not write DESPITE the weather. I will not write despite the weather. Why would I write despite the weather? Is not the weather the same as the orange? Is not the wind and cold embodied within the orange? Did not the tree drink deeply of the wind and cold and imprint the sound and texture within the same explosion of taste, freshness and joy? Is not the juice that dribbled down my lips, chin and fingers the same as the wind and cold that numbed my lips, chin, and fingers? Why would I write despite as if part of your creation was succulent and another part to be confronted in "despite"? No, I will not write despite.

For the juice of life, for the joy of cutting open a slice of life, peeling back the texture of every season past, and the fresh release upon my body, my heart, and my spirit. For the joy of Life dribbling upon my body and the taste of eternity. Thank you.