oranges

she sends me a photo
of herself, this stranger,
and a bowl of oranges.
she's wearing a black
sweater, against the white
of her kitchen, she laughs
and says that she doesn't
know where they all came
from, but here they are.
and they look fat and juicy
in the bright lights,
held in the crystal bowl
by her long slender hands.
she is smiling, a soft
smile of tenderness, perhaps
a glimpse of the sweetness
and light within her, but
i'll never know, like
an orange tree, she's too far
away, i can't reach that
limb, that branch to pull
one off into my hands.