Small Orange Earths

Small orange earths. Cold, from where I kept you. Your oils seeping into the air and promising sweetness.

What does it take to pierce you? A sharp finger nail? A prod from a blunt thumb?

Once I found you in a stocking at the foot of my bed and then forgot you until the new year. I smelt you out. A heavy odour leading me to you like a pungent brown trail.

As though you wanted to be found.