The first snowstorm of the year had just ended.
In slushy, sloppy streets my sneakers squished
through snow half-melted until tonight’s refreeze.
Tomorrow the sidewalk will reveal icy patches so
smooth and clear one misstep leads you to Oz.
Today the orange peels fly. One, two wavy sections
plop into the snow. The man in front of me tucks
wavy grey hair into a grey toque, his tan overcoat
flapping in the breeze as he throws out more peels.
It is only then I notice the scent of fresh oranges.
This poem came to me a few weeks ago as I was walking down the street behind a middle-aged man eating an orange and throwing peels over his shoulder.
I don’t know yet what this poem means. Sometimes I think it’s better if we don’t know what it is we’re writing although if you have an interpretation of it I’m all ears!