Picking Tangerines

Citrus skin was meant to let its sweet smell wander
Right into the familiar nose of someone's strong face.

Our feet were meant to follow
To walk on hard and soft
Then stay and contemplate
Our arms were meant to reach up high
Our hands were meant to twist and pick
Then grip full bags and lift.

Now carrying new weight
Our legs already know
They are meant to bring us back
Where we are meant to give and share
Then nails are meant to rip
They sink into soft bright flesh
That pulls apart and drips.

Do I bring it to my lip or bring my lip to it?
This fruit was always meant for our souls to kindly sip.

Note: I'm thinking about ending the poem with the question and getting rid of the last line. I'd appreciate any thoughts on that! This poem will be a gift so would love any feedback

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