They hung like lanterns, free of leaves, the green ones green, the ripe white, or so it seemed. All were too firm to be eaten, but Willie† picked one and cut it open with a knife, as if, by virtue of a slice, the seasons would change. It wasn’t really a lemon inside. And it wasn’t spring, or any other time. It was a strange grove, that’s all, there for itself, as much as of our longing.