so shall
my mistress sun
herself
give space to voices
when live swears she’s made of truth

lemons feed themselves
her joy to be alive

power can abolish
these little things
& in any case govern
shade & gentle breezes
the grass on which we sit or lie
like some sort of altar
slick with lemon

I never talked to you
in the dales of arcady
so take what
wouldn’t stay green there
the poor lemon

Bill Lavender
from his book Transfixion
Garrett County Press & Trembling Pillow Press, 2009

used with permission of the poet