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.