In its white pith-fibres, dispensing the sun,
In its wine-red skin, hoarding it.
Oranges and plums (are they peaches?)
In Anne Vallayer-Coster´s kitchen (did she
Buy them?) pile light upon light as it
Reaches through fruit into woodgrain.
She doesn´t seek to hide them, the petals
Fallen from the unsuccoured flowers.
The glass gleams, as does the knife
Inflicting no pain (yet) on still-breathing
Life, the orange slices a sundial, counting
Down the hours.
*Inspired by Avani and Supurna´s mediations on oranges, and this tiny hand-sized copy I made of 17th century French painter, Anne Vallayer-Coster´s still life (seen here framed and ready for the art school´s annual exhibition)
You've been writing with us and through us for decades now, what a privilege! Also the long winding peel of the orange in that painting reminded me of the orange peel in The Lost Daughter. Yet another resonance <3
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