In February, in the desert,
for some reason, orange trees
choose this time to bear.
Strangers to the area
must find it glorious--
trees weighted with food
in the yard, in winter.
If they pick it to eat,
however, they'll discover
it's pale inside and bitter,
ruined by the wrong season.
But the children
at our apartments
have found a use for it--
they lob the bright balls
against walls and cars,
so when I cross the parking lot,
the asphalt is splattered
by busted shells, the meat
and seeds flowered out,
and the air lit with scent.