Sun runs down the bark
of the old lemon tree.
Beneath the bark
are termites,
but outside, hanging
on a cantilevered limb,
a full perfection of fruit,
and blossoms, pungent, golden,
sweeter than orchids.

There’s an air of decrepitude,
a stillness locked.
It is a hypocritical thing,
bursting with living,
and dying within,
dividing the moment
into pity and hope.

Blossoms asleep and,
termites awake.

All things have the soul
of all things at stake.