Golden sunset lemons, twinkly sliced
unlike the first time I ran my pen, and eyes, dry.
Puckers and sighs against a luminescent sky--
only dreams back then, something to imagine.
I've felt blue before; ink stained lines painted
pages of erupting emotion like fire and ocean.
With slammed doors and open journals, I poured
hurt-laced words out of my closed mind
and unexpectedly bloomed with time.
Now I can taste the stars, take bites of
complex transitions, and sour situations
like picking ripened lemons, inspiring me to write.
Poetry uncovered me, gave my paperbacks a glass spine
so I could find clarity within myself and take
clouding thoughts out into refreshing sunshine.