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The citrus in the store looks impossible, like the pretend plastic fruit in the plastic basket that came with my sons’ toy grocery cart. I have no desire for fruit that bleached over and shiny.
The horizontal slit of an octopus’s eye is a door that judges us.
This is the fruit for a time of year when the sun and all its gallop don’t merely feel as though they have nudged us from a static winter, but into a fully alive, roaring season—when everything you touch feels like it could give you a blister and a bit of wild burn.
It is this way with wonder: it takes a bit of patience, and it takes putting yourself in the right place at the right time. It requires that we be curious enough to forgo our small distractions in order to find the world.
