A Lemon
Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, loves
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon trees yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the trees plaarium
Delicate merdise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creations
inal juices,
irreducible, geless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, are and acerb.
Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.
So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a nipple
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a pla.
Pablo Neruda