Newton’s Lemon

winsome the wind blows listless from over
there,     ambiguous direction,     and lollipop
sun shines like a child’s rendering in sky
hung manila,     construction texture,     written
over with     invisible     ink offering
directions to life somehow understood
by every sentient without a codext
language   .   .   .   I see this because I boil lemons
in a cauldron meant for laundry,          backyard
brewing cleanliness without clorox,     white
the natural grey of woven cotton,
duller for not being those high clouds,     cirrus
above the blackbirds crying change, change, change.

David M Pitchford
5 Jan 2012


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