Fruit of happiness

There's this place in the country where
Orange trees line the primitive road
Your rusted Duster jostles on
Still the orange trees beckon
Extending their branches
Wanting you to accept their offering
Taste their fruit, sweet and pure, like a child
So you take one and the juice is sticky on your chin

And you keep the windows down so the wind
Tousles your unruly hair
It ruffles your arm hair, too--tickles it
But you let it, knowing each whirl of wind
Is the heartbeat of heaven
You are close to it
Can almost touch the top of it

You have this urge to sing loudly, so you do
"Oh my darling Clementine"
And you think the sort of adventure it'd be
To drive like this all day
On you drive,
The fruit of happiness
On your chin, fingertips.

~mh