I am perched
among the blossoming flower buds
and buzzing bees.

I am snatched
from the branch when I turn
ripe, a bright yellow — a direct reflection
of the sun.

I am placed
into a straw basket, with those like me,
waiting to be whisked away.

I am carried
from the bumpy road and old, rickety steps
and brought into an afternoon
brightly lit room.

I am pressed
and rolled on a smooth surface
and my juice releases within.

I am bold.
My sheer skin is sliced by the battle sword;
my light, citrus scent adds
joy and excitement to the room.

I am picked
up from that smooth surface and gently
lifted over an empty bowl.

I am compressed,
face-down, letting my nectar trickle
down, filling the bowl,
and joining together with the crystals below.

I am priceless.
We are twirled with aspiration;
the delight of seeing one content with our pride.

I am satisfied.
From a little seedling and a blossomed bud,
to a lovely fruit that served its purpose.
I am a precise wonder, from that branch.