Lemons (On the Wane)

You did not grow here.

I carried you in

From a fertile foreign landscape

To grace the table where I feast

And brighten up the banquet

With your gusty blaze but

You languished and

You paled.

Your skin is leather now,

Pebbled

Like an old woman's chin,

Withered from neglect

You are a sunny day gone gray,

A rough leather sphere

Split wide open

To reveal chambers of

Wet flesh and

Soft tissue,

Membranes and seeds

Still crying for nourishment

And purpose.

Filled with

Fluids once vital.

But sour, oh so sour

this nectar that

Curdled the cream.