When life hands you lemons,

You make lemonade.

That’s the way

The cards are played.

But if life hands you a pitcher,

Where do you get those lemons?

If life hands you nothing

But an empty shell for something?

Just a chance to make it something?

Not even a half-full, half-empty,

Half-thing of a whole.

Just… a hole.

One that’s dug out like a grave.

Just the potential to become a half,

Maybe two halves full.

So, life handed me a pitcher

To make some lemonade.

But where's the fruit

Of my labor, when

There's none to be found at the start?

But the same is as when

Life's giving tree bears you lemons,

Giving you materials

And no way to capture them.

No way to enclose them,

Contain them,

Martyr them.

Only a raw source that

Makes your throat raw for its sweetness,

Yearning for what's within.

And the puzzle's still at hand,

Here in the palm of the game,

That game that life plays with us,

Toying with our minds in our pot of misery.

And since misery loves company,

Come here, and bring us

A sharp tool of our choosing,

To help dig us out of our misery

And peel from the cold, outer shell of the thing

That cool, Summer nectar reminiscent of Spring.

And maybe next time,

If we're lucky enough,

We'll be fine with our pitcher.

And I'll say,

"Fill 'er up.

I can't get enough of

The dust in my cup."