You and I, live in a lemon grove

You and I, live in a lemon grove


I see you

in floating specs-
a face

embryonic
and aglow

hope

I put little bounty
into fictitious sounding words such as that,

or
at least I pretend-
this is true.

But hope is often a dream,
it can be the premonition of love
still shapeless yet.

And-

love is a pinioned thing, it flutters and perches within the breasted cage and bathes in our soul's green fountain, this love is bound yet not confounded,

it will soar away,
yet always return fate-filled
to perch within, and bathe in your clear green waters again.

If I fail hope-

I may dissolve this heart matter,
into this social contract of moderne sameness,

and that my dear,
is a loss too grave.

So while you're a realist-
I'll be the optimist, this day.

And while you're off-
I'll revert to silent inwardness,

because-

the greatest influence over an artist
is in fact that of another creator;

we extend our openness, to theirs,

we are curious children climbing fences to see the view in
from the other side,

and there is a forwardness to looking back.

And you and I,
live in a lemon grove.

We have enough sun to sustain
the days about to come,

here-
inside the boughs of green and yellow

we'll be the shadow show

comprised of primary
colour-

making confetti out of
undressed rinds.