A Lemon Grows

As I sit, on the branch above me,
a lemon grows.
Bright yellow, glistening in the sun’s rays,
its sour insides sweeten, ripen—
slowly becoming fruit worthy of its tree.
Perhaps to serve the lives it touches,
to become lemonade,
sweetened by the photosynthetic labors of another.

Each day I return to this quiet sanctuary,
and still, it remains—
unknowing, uncertain of its future.
Yet it ripens. It grows.
Its stillness and patience sway with the branch,
its weight a hymn to the wind.

Today, my stoic friend has moved on.
The branch hangs bare,
swinging with a rhythm less steady,
as if to grieve its absence.

And I too am left here,
to sit without it.
To ripen. To grow.

My gaze drifts downward
to the humble home where sweetness slumbers.
May she wake soon to greet me,
to sweeten the bitterness of a finite existence.

For even under an empty branch,
a lemon still grows—
rooted within me, eyes open,
yearning to ripen,
to be still,
to be of service.

Here, a lemon grows.