The whispered sigh begged to be heard by anyone but the death beat of time undone. Coarse as the blustered wind whipping temperature dropping particles of frozen dreams that in the light of day would shatter into remnants not to be found. The small green fruit not ripened or ready for picking, it lacked size and an orange skin. Nurtured and loved through spring, battled the Orange Dog caterpillar in summer. Got a late start in fall, slow to grow and now lost to a winter’s day. A whispered sigh cast from my lips, another season to wait. Orange, anyone?