i see the chickadee in the bush
in front of me
snow is falling, falling slow
branches seem all he knows
i am the chickadee in that bush
as i watch the snow
falling falling falling slow
what blue is that
above that waits
for the coming sun?
without the warmth
of hope and heart
until the day is done?
what cold is this
that greets each cheek
upon each vacant breeze?
i do not know, i can not say
— i do not dare
In all the (grand) universe, there is nothing
more important than a (fresh) lemon —
to suggest otherwise is (sadly) inhuman
the sour bite of it’s flesh on a (human) tongue
the bitter seeds that split in a mouth (accidentally)
the artificial desire for cleanliness (implied)
Karen’s grandmother, being sweet — (often) used
these perfect citrus hymns to a (kindly) distant God
to celebrate (sweet) love with her
sugar, lemons, water and so (damned) much time
seconds, minutes – forever stirred (well)
then her soul – also stirred (better)
the recipe is not in the (cold) water or the sugar
but her grandmother’s (beautiful) smile
and the lemons. Most importantly the (fresh) lemons.
years later, her grandmother is gone, the (thick) scent
of citrus hangs in the air for (ever) just a moment
she sighs. what could be more important than that?