poem of the day

and if i can never write like him, it will be okay. as long as, if just once, i can see with an eye like his. 

Ode to the Lemon

From blossoms

released

by the moonlight,

from an

aroma of exasperated

love,

steeped in fragrance,

yellowness

drifted from the lemon tree,

and from its planetarium

lemons descended to the earth.

Tender yield!

The coasts,

the markets glowed

with light, with

unrefined gold;

we opened

two halves

of a miracle,

congealed acid

trickled

from the hemispheres

of a star,

the most intense liqueur

of nature,

unique, vivid,

concentrated,

born of the cool, fresh

lemon,

of its fragrant house,

its acid, secret symmetry.

Knives

sliced a small

cathedral

in the lemon,

the concealed apse, opened,

revealed acid stained glass,

drops

oozed topaz,

altars,

cool architecture.

So, when you hold

the hemisphere

of a cut lemon

above your plate,

you spill

a universe of gold,

a

yellow goblet

of miracles,

a fragrant nipple

of the earth's breast,

a ray of light that was made fruit,

the minute fire of a planet.

-- Pablo Neruda.