Revealing what’s been waited for,
the sun announces itself.
Bold herald plastered
on gray buildings, splashed
over solemn pines.
The sun rises.
And there you are,
in a garden, looking right at me.
Robins pose the question
I can’t answer.
Lemons growing soft on a counter.
You brought them inside,
arms flecked with pricks
because of it. Winter moss
clings to your coat.
I touch the fruit, the cheery
flesh concealing sharpness.
I touch the fruit,
and weeks have passed.
A friend came for a visit, the baby cried.
I hear your words like drops in a pool:
where are you. It’s impossible to tell
you that I’m inside this picture
of my life, lemons on a counter,
a color I remember from before
but the only word I have is yellow.
The robins skirt across the sky
pulling time behind, your face
through the glass, glass inside and out,
how many times you have brought lemons
I can’t recall.