Jennifer Cahill Poet Prose Poetry

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.

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