The lime

Squeezing rind against skin I call the luna moth, wings dusting air like perfume. Wing to lip, antennae to hand he leaves the pollen's gift. A trace of lime follows him into the arc light. Later at night I enter the garden. Where I have dropped seed, lime trees are growing. The branches send semaphore messages to a silver-skinned elm, who, at half-point, begins her relevee. My toes take the ground. Night breathes on my naked limbs bathed in gesture. So much begins from stillness. At my fingertips the pale green flowers wave.

About these ads
Sponsored Content by LockerDome

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...

Loading...

Save for later

Save
Cancel

Saved ( of items)

This item has been saved to read later from any device.
Access saved items through your user name at the top of the page.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You reached the limit of 20 saved items.
Please visit following link to manage you saved items.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You have already saved this item.

View Saved Items

OK