Wednesday, May 16, 2012

White Lemons


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.



9 comments:

Two Tigers said...

William, what a beautiful piece of writing, with words as hard to resist as lemons, and as illuminating as lanterns. I just keep reading it aloud to myself, not to grasp it, but because I like the way it makes my voice sound, as if I were in that timeless grove. Thank you for the perfect obbligato to my morning coffee.

William Michaelian said...

Nor do we grasp the steam, and yet straight to lungs and mind it goes. Thank you, Gabriella, for keeping this dream alive.

táne-mar said...

the soul doesn't know seasons.
thank you for the special write, William.

Jan said...

With your words come wonderful pictures to my mind, Willam.

William Michaelian said...

Thanks for seeing it that way, Tanya.

Thank you, too, Jan. I’m glad.

nouvelles couleurs - vienna atelier said...

For me this dream it's like a destiny sign, because in the last time i'm always thinking on the original sin... And trought this dream i that in a better way, finally a positiv way, thank you for posting this in tihs time

William Michaelian said...

You’re welcome, Laura, and I thank you for your thoughtful reading.

Bitch said...

Images are coming back and with your writing and a little fantasy the reader can find himself right there..

I am in this picture...

William Michaelian said...

Thank you, Monika. In a way, the dream life is an ocean or a stream, in which anyone and everyone can bathe. A few words, memory, a little fantasy, yes.