Poetry About Lemons

In yellow fruit bright on a blue plate, lemons finds a visible shape. Zest opening in the kitchen air carries what ordinary speech leaves unfinished. Between juice stinging a paper cut and a pitcher sweating in July, the heart learns to listen. Sharpness can refresh the tongue when sweetness has grown dull, though the day rarely says so aloud. By night, seeds drying beside the knife becomes a promise rather than an ending.

Zest opening in the kitchen air enters the poem first. Lemons follows, neither symbol nor explanation, but weather. A pitcher sweating in July keeps the difficult measure. We stand near yellow fruit bright on a blue plate and let certainty loosen. Sharpness can refresh the tongue when sweetness has grown dull. Seeds drying beside the knife remains after the room grows quiet.

Someone remembers juice stinging a paper cut. Someone else names yellow fruit bright on a blue plate and means an entire life. Lemons moves between them with patient hands. Zest opening in the kitchen air refuses to become only background. Sharpness can refresh the tongue when sweetness has grown dull. At last, seeds drying beside the knife gives the silence somewhere to rest.