Summer of Lemons by Marjorie Thomsen

The Writer's Almanac by Garrison Keillor

It was the summer of lemons
being replaced by oranges. Lemons,
they said, had lost something
that lemons sometimes lose. Painters
piled Navels and Valencias, mixed red
into yellow for Still Life with Oranges;
the wooden bowl beautiful with lonely
cracks, organic with time and handling.
Evening, men and women squeezed
wedges from the larger fruit, a squall
over flounder. Mothers whisked sweeter
juice into oil, sherry vinegar, crush
of garlic. Seaside, we sprayed oysters
then peppered as usual. In the absence
of lemons, there was a thirsting to taste
water kindled with novelty, set ablaze by
unplumbed citrus. Slices like thin suns
were cut to fit the rim line, to spin
the circumference of goblets and jam
jars. It was then, drinking
what was more July than June,
that we returned to each other.

Friday, October 13, 2017