Lemon Tree
Sweat of the beach on your neck,
the sea perfumes the rain plants,
the sky clears,
the sky bruises purple with lightning.
The fruit of a lemon tree moon
shades towering over the dune sand,
and then descent, a rush of wind
down the branches,
down the sand on wooden planks,
we run full of wine to the waves,
we marvel at the salt night,
we cup wine
and you illuminate a silent book
underneath the labyrinths of water.
John Swain lives in Le Perreux-sur-Marne, France. The Origami Poems Project published his
most recent chapbook, The Daymark.
