here, in the sunshine, a lemon
picked from a neighbor’s tree
like the moon later on, in the right
season for color, a giant caution
light, cars slowing, waiting, heads
turning left—right—left, and still
someone grows daylilies, daffodils,
and marigolds in the landscaped beds
by the nursing home windows,
jaundice, fear, and a canary
named Stan who sings and sings,
having learned the melodies
from a recording when he was younger,
while someone creams butter and sugar,
adds yolks until the mixture becomes
something else and disappears,
like the old song, like the petals
that drop and the stems that carry on,
holding space. Bow ties, novelty
socks, the right shade of campfire,
the moment where flame leaps
and vanishes, the murmurs of goodnight,
goodnight, holding a cold hand
in a cold hospital room, stained
glass windows and old paper,
that handwriting, the words still good.
