When I Eat A Tangerine

I’ve got these tangerines up on the sill.
 They’re bright and ruddy in the afternoon light.
When the sun bursts through and floods the kitchen sink
they gleam. 
I sit down to rest and peel the soft, smooth skin
and marvel at the God who made the tangerine.
This perfect round plump of citrus juice.
Wrapped up in ornamental white–a filigree.
I think of how He could have made the world just shades of grey,
and all the food flavorless and bland.
We never would have known.
But, He imbued it full of colors all ablaze and brilliant.
Sunsets.
Wildflowers.
Kingfishers.
Tangerines.
And He packed this world full of flavors savory and sweet.
He made my tongue to taste.
My eyes to see.
And some say in all this earth and the cosmos vast
there is no sign of Him.
Not even a hint.
But, He makes Himself known vividly
to me
when I eat a tangerine.

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