I recall the citrus trees of my youth, with welcoming branches and a deep well formed at the joining of thick wide limbs. Yet it was a little too high for me to reach, so instead I only yearned for its embrace.
I loved it when the delicate flowers opened to the California sun releasing the cloying sweet scent of orange blossoms. A riot of waxy, impossibly white petals cast against the darkness. Too soon they were ready to change, and embrace the brightly hued destiny already set for them.
On the low branches the squirrels would eat the pulp, leaving behind nothing but a bright orange hull. A shell of what could have been – still clinging to the branch, trying to pretend it was not empty inside.
On the higher branches laid the promise of rich and juicy flesh - dense and ripe. Waiting for the brave to risk everything to reach it, or to drop to the earth and take its chances.