The incandescence of a word

Lemons.
Lemony.
I am a gooey meringue when I read those words.
Golden eggs whipped with cream, sugar,
and zest—voilá, joyous custard.
Bright twist shines
on earthy espresso.
Iced tea slices stuffed
under the skin of chickens,
rosemary, garlic, pats of butter.
Mashed potato clouds in summer.
Pastel light beams in winter.
Sunshine, soft breezes, sky
so blue it almost stings the eye.
Tart and pucker,
squeeze these sour orbs—
they tease for sweetness.
When I smell them
I know something is clean.
Lemons.
Lemony.
Antithesis of despair.
Give me a lemon—
I know I would be happy.


Cynthia E. Robinson © 2013

Lemon Slice on a Wood Block by Abbey Ryan, 2009.  Used with permission.