What gift is this the day forces
upon the hapless tangerine tree?
It is the gift of sunlight for chlorophyll
to do what it will in the continuing
nourishment of the tree and me
who its fruit is chewed by, swallowed,
mixed with digestive juices, and ransacked
for fuel just as fire ransacks air
for oxygen to bind gases to, what
it frees from the thoughtless-looking
wood. Behind, it leaves a heap
of smudgy stuff lesser than a dream
that cannot be recalled. Of what
was once a house, a lawn or limb
or nearly anything fire catches onto.