The Gardner a Disqualified Poem On Lemons

Lemons, their squeezed juice that trickles down the chin, and slides through the fingers, is the sunlight that warms an April eve' for the first time since the previous April. Lemon- drops are sweet, and you want to just look at their sunny sugariness, hold one like a little jewelry bead- and in your mouth every suck- one after the other like you string the beads- one after the other on a long thin string the color of the moon, is tasted like every raindrop falls from the sky is felt by the Earth. And I guess so many flowers are the color of lemons. And on the lemon tree, the daubs of yellow hardness are almost the color of a wind- blown sail in a hot late Summer afternoon sunshine on a sea. The lemon tree could be captive of an artist in a painting- with a grey- blue cloudy sky- the leaves are a dark green. The leaves are almost the hue and shape of pine needles- not an actual lemon tree- but there is a little white streak of paint with a little grey on the streak's edge painted by the artist on the tree- what happened to the lemons? The lemons were plucked by the Gardener.