56 The Meadow My Father’s Orange Tree Austin Crago In April sun I watched my father carefully carve the soil with a scalpel like trowel. The hole left filled with roots of an orange tree. The tree and I stood watching each other, when it passed my head and stole a cloud straight from heaven. In spring its branches gifted me with oranges, filling the empty space in my stomach. Winter came, painting the lawn with its brown, dead leaves. Each leaf that fell, I counted, waiting for the last one to meet The earth. On January 2nd, through the window, I sat unmoved, Letting that last leaf wave to me as it fell.
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