Its small celestial reach stops
where the counterweight, the first
tough green fruit, pulls earthward
and returns the brazen, almost rank perfume
of blossoms now six months gone.

The slurred odor of its leaves
calls back that long evening's end:
we shivered in the cool light
a northerly sun bent against the world
into the hands of friends

who helped clear the outdoor supper's
sharp debris—forks, tin plates,
balled napkins and bone nests.
The lemon blossoms throbbed. The air
slowed with so much young life,

the fragrance quickened in our veins
the common, too surprising wish
to hold, just then, another,
whoever stood nearest, whatever charm
would bind us to the lowering light.

Then someone said, "Let's eat the tree"—
Tear apart the bole, raid the green heart,
devour remembrance with one moment's
hunger and eat the nature of things.
Scraped plates, laughter, glasses refilled . . .

Our sweet anger urged and gathered us
around the young tree's tub, made us
tamp the wet soil and drink fast
the clear smell of unseen yellow fruit
in time we ourselves might never know.