The Lemon-Yellow Sun
A sip of tangy-sweetness.
Cold golden delight
With a crisp scent that makes you
Feel the sticky black asphalt,
Melting under the gingham
Table cloth. Surrounded by
Cool green-black shade under the
Eucalyptus tree in bloom.
Mosquitoes flitting around
You, like flies to honey.
Dripping skin, heavy syrup
Saturated from last night’s
Rain, air sagging with liquid.
Then falling down to the earth.
Sun-cracked dirt oozing, moist mud.
Soft terra cotta honey.
Combined with the smell of the
Dusk air, and the stars across
The blue-purple sky. Like facets,
On tin foil only creased
Once before. Used on the day
Heat was a sponge in the sky,
Sucking up all sanity.
Without movement, stagnant sloth.
Enveloping even the dark.
Hallways lined with pastel walls.
Landscapes, snapshots of the sea.
Corners bursting with sunshine
During the day. Lemon juice
Glow, citrus sparkle, gold rind.
Strangely dark, lifeless at night.
Blanketed with the thick fog
Of gray, spider-web shadows.
No reminders of day time.
Heat with happy, joyful shouts.
Lemonade is a mirage.
When drunk at night, unreal sun.
Risen above a glass of
Bleak night-time, lunar desert.
