Amazing the ruin, the stupor of the misbegotten, fervor of memory may assuage: held long indoors, long drying and forgotten, a pinch of spruce confuses — a scent of miracles — overwhelming — brings to mind the sweetly fragrance — tiny, tart and sticky — pungent orange fruit of the Osage tree. I can see it, that tiny orange, feel it in my hand, clinging to my fingers, still perceive the faint glow it cast in my kitchen where it …