©2005 by Jennifer Honeycutt. May not be reproduced without permission.
the orange sun hangs over your shoulder,
big and round as a gulf sign.
i shield my eyes to take you in.
your white shirt is tinted orange in the glare;
your skin is like smooth iced tea
with an orange peel on the side.
i look down at my black sandals
and see a bright orange ant
crawling toward me.
your foot kicks out swiftly,
crushing the orange ant in a gesture
of what you must imagine is kindness.
but standing here in the flood
of orange sunlight,
i want to tell you this:
i could have just moved my foot,
and the orange ant
could have continued its march
toward the orange sun.