Wife and Mother.

A flowering lemon tree in the center of town,
planted years ago along the path to the sea.
Cut a pursed fruit through its center.
Juice emanates as water spills from springs.
Like gravity, a force, sour and potent,
Like blood, you cannot stop its emergence.

Hurricane blasts through town.
Sea twister of potent proportions,
Bringing its winds, rain, lightning, boom-resonance.
Storm waxes, chaos whips the face and legs of man.
Storm dies, taking its squalls, but leaving exhaustions
and agonies profound in its own wake.

As a turtle is born on the torn shore,
Its egg-home shudders.
The only of its clutch to survive the storm.
On a piece of beach smoldered out like any other,
The stillness breaks. From a nest of lost sisters,
A pale, tiny shell wriggles and spins daylight.
The surface of beach gives birth to writhing.

Accross the shredded sand, a brilliant canary sun
Muscles his rays over all visible land.
His song powers through nuances of lemon flowers
And thickets of her leaves.
He drops his chin and gazes softly
Upon the somehow new turtle,
Who blinks unknowingly toward the sea.