My Orchard Of Orange

Today I peeled a baby orange. Strange in the middle of June.
I rested the fruit in the palm of my hand and let the citrus goodness permeate through me. I felt it sting the root of my canine and I winced in sour delight.
I sat back and rocked it between my fingers till I found the dent on it's leathery back. Premature. We were in the middle of June.
I dug my nail into the bottle green peel. I carved the letters of my name into the bottle green sheath. The spray stung my eye. It was too early. It was the middle of June.
I hooked my finger beneath the bottle green layer, and slit it open. More spray stung my eye. It was war.
I tore. I tugged. I warred. I won. Time had not moved. Still the middle of June.
The fruit lay inside. Defeated and raw. I glared at the white, pathetic excuse, willing it to be ripe. Change colour I begged, my recent victory forgotten. I had forgotten. I told you - it was the middle of June.