I told my love that oranges were my favourite,
so my love kissed me on the cheek and planted citrus trees
And when December drew nigh,
my love brought me lemons,
said,
“here, my love. Your wish is my command”
They were bitter,
but they were my love’s,
and my love had painstakingly planted lemon trees for me.
When he saw me take lemon in my tea,
my love was confused,
hurt.
“Why not eat them?
I thought you liked eating lemons,”
Oranges-
I corrected.
I liked eating oranges.
The next morning all the trees were gone,
and all that were left were stumps.
“Nothing is good enough!”
But it was,
“You don’t appreciate my efforts,”
I do-
I had turned lemons to lemonade and-
morning lemon and ginger tea-
but it was not enough.
Lemons were lemons because they were bitter,
and is it love really if I can’t handle my love’s bitter gifts?
I lost my love to women who loved lemons,
all because I loved oranges and not my love’s lemons.
I lost the labour of my love’s love-
his lemon trees
And now my backyard was all stumps and emptiness.
Darkness and light 