By Alden Solovy –
Thin trails of blood
Crisscross my arms.
Lemon trees have thorns,
But I do not wear a long sleeve shirt
For the harvest,
And my gloves do nothing
Against the sudden
Needle pricks
On my fingers.
So many lemons hide
In the tangle of branches
Which must be moved
To see deep inside the tree,
Or lifted to find
The fruit hidden beneath.
Coaxing branches aside,
I move inch by inch
Into the thickness of thorns
And boughs
To reach the trunk,
To be held by the limbs,
Lifted by the force of life,
Comforted by the scent
Of growth and purpose.
The air raid siren
Rumbles across the open field
Into the orchard.
Explosions echo in the sky.
I lay flat on the ground,
Beneath my tree,
Feeding the roots
With drops of blood
And silent tears.
Lemon trees have thorns,
But I do not wear a long sleeve shirt
For the harvest,
And my gloves do nothing
Against the sudden
Needle pricks
On my fingers.
So many lemons hide
In the tangle of branches
Which must be moved
To see deep inside the tree,
Or lifted to find
The fruit hidden beneath.
Coaxing branches aside,
I move inch by inch
Into the thickness of thorns
And boughs
To reach the trunk,
To be held by the limbs,
Lifted by the force of life,
Comforted by the scent
Of growth and purpose.
Convene,
Arraying the charges before us,
And wait,
Still wait,
For us to answer.
