Peeling Clementines on Olive Street

Let art and love make themselves–
it could be this easy:
In the kitchen on Olive Street
we sat peeling clementines and talked about releasing,
the white compost bucket at my feet
filled with the discarded, the unusable, the hulls
and shells and grinds and pits. But the peels we piled
on the marble countertop, little mountains
morphing, mine into angels and hers into hearts, before
we swept them away, a mandala.

3 thoughts on “Peeling Clementines on Olive Street


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