I’m sittin’ here beneath the lemon tree,
breeze hummin’ soft like a minor key.
Clouds paint the sky in a watercolor sigh,
and time drips slow like juice from the sky.
Every yellow globe holds a sun that’s been,
every leaf a whisper of might-have-been.
I strum the quiet, let silence sing,
tasting the tart of an unpublished spring.
Grow, little lemon, bittersweet and bright,
keep my heart awake in the fading light.