for Alfred Kwok
Out behind your house
there is a lemon tree. It sags
with yellow bulbs. I think of the tree
as a source of natural light.
When the tree becomes tired of holding
it lets them fall slowly,
like rain, slipping out of one’s grasp.
You catch the lightning
and the wetness
bring them in cardboard boxes
to share a small beauty
with the rest of us.
All the lemons have fallen
In their absence, I can taste the storm.
It slides down my face,
in spite of the bitterness on my tongue
in spite of the tempest all around us.