Orange spreads softly—
a freshness stretched across fields,
horizons kissing the sun goodbye,
where the sky leans close, and
dreams dissolve into a warm night.

It lives in the laughter of children,
the spark of first loves,
the soft ache of waiting—
the sweet and bitter taste of it,
all at once, like ripe fruit,
heavy on a branch.

I see it draped across the sky—
a silk robe, streaked with amber
and flame, still ardent at daybreak,
whenever I think of you.

So let us gather orange, let it
rest between what was and
what might be. Each shade,
an ember of something tender,
something alive that endures—
an inner fire, forever bright,
forever ours.