Orange-ku VIII

I imagine my oranges in sun.
They don't dance, don't frolic, don't move in any way.
They just soak up light, making glorious fruit.

I imagine my oranges at sea.
In crates, in darkness they bob and drift and slide.
Afraid, alone, suddenly homesick.

I imagine my oranges in store.
Unsure, hopeful, watching every passerby.
Then I come, say, "You won't be consumed in vain."