A man threw a lemon into the air
And caught it up, on a February afternoon.
It was unseasonable: he didn’t care.
The air smelled of flowers and the day-wrong moon –
Or the woman-in-front’s expensive scent:
It was all one.
There was a brightness to the hour
That he had not seen or meant
When he’d prayed for sun beneath his morning shower.
The man sheathed the lemon in his pocket and went.