"I never thought of oranges being orange.
That color had been reserved for larger darker things…
Like tigers with broad sculptured backs as tall as horses,
Half-hidden in the deep hot jungle and padding softly by on heavy paws.
And pumpkins, landscaping piles of them on every farmstead field and parking lot,
Where you'd go with childhood innocence on a grizzly dark afternoon to pick the most glorious one,
The one so round, voluptuous in detail and so heavy it nearly slipped from your grasp,
And wrapped your arms tightly around so that your fingertips just barely touched…
And on some rare nights the moon, swollen and low in the sky just over the treetops.
That was orange, giant and uncommon and wild, A strange word like wolf, lonely without rhyme."
A. Ellington
This post has been edited to add who in fact DID write this poem - it was not I.