Citrus Grove: Land Back

By | 15 February 2023

Ultraviolet rays, in position, dance 92.894 million miles
away. Yet sunlight wavers across multitudes of spatial

planes that permeate your body. And somehow, no matter
how far distance may seem, depending on point-of-view,

warmth presses the nape of your neck or imprints the apple
of your cheek. A vast-void sequined in patterns of purpose

might astonish you. At night, looking up at the sky makes
you wonder why so many ellipses mark sheets laid across

the zenith, but more importantly, what lies yonder. But right
now, you are among a grove of oranges, varying in size and

fragrance—buds greening into existence, pericarps leathery
and rinding terpenes-flavonoids. You’ve meandered through

the rows of oranges countless times, the area’s schematics
ingrained in memory. Your hands powdery and astringent

clayed on by oranges and dust, but another scent cracks
through the façade like a time-warp unpeeling. One you

remember clearly, amidst blooms, crates, and insectoids
droning throughout, another world bleeds beyond threshold

like white light refracted through the eye of a prism. Not
everyone is wary of this fissure, most are oblivious of its

presence, but not the few that are privy to its history. You’re
not the only one that remembers. This tear is evocative of

the wound inflicted on the land. Hooves, hands, mouths
incongruously defamiliarized topography, although they

tried to rip out the roots, a vast network amalgamated,
more than fruit grew from soil manufactured weave a

reminder for trespassers, that you and a legion still remain.

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