Sugaring Lemon
 
An incontinent day, a day plagued
by moods doomed to waffle
as much as a 16-year-old
told she can have a car
if she will learn to drive stick.
Sky sulks,  wheedles,  hides,
shuffles out of  its room, sobbing
some made-up tale.  So you turn.
on a bunch of lights. Watch her
unleash the full Monte:  No, no,
hers  is a Huck Finn grin.   Freckles
practically pop.  Gold gleams
and a cattywampus wig vamps
from mouse to robin’s egg
blue with puffs of pale lavender talc.  
Please, night, bring her flowers
and eau de toilette that dizzies
with night-blooming jasmine.  
 
Uh, oh.  Rain is beginning to tap
with acid-blunted nails.  ‘s’all right..
Just a shower.   Warm one, at that.
Watch me fall back in love.  After all,
a rain shower, like a day, is not its own
boss.  It is Chaos that storms in
and flings lemons like bolts.  Clouds
stuff themselves fat, then conspire
with the dark spirits that are bent
on shoving rivers over their banks
and abusing wind so it, too, punishes.
Only feels like a plot.  Maybe
night will calm the front.  Always hope
tomorrow  will feel  less frazzled.
 
 
(c)  Phyllis Jean Green, 2007.
 
..