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.
Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | Year Posted 2022
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