Three Poems

The Lemon Tree Syndrome   Howard, now dead longtime, took me by the elbow, led me down the garden path to the old tree.   Laden! Bursting with fruit. Bowing under the weight.   It’s on its last legs and so it gives it everything it’s got. The best crop is the last crop.   Do you think, maybe, this frantic falling in love all over the place, intemperately,   is something to do with intimations of mortality? You are blossoming   with an endstage intensity? It’s a thought. Everything I ever learned was from gardening.   Jennifer Compton  …

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