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Lemon . . . quiet philosopher beside the loud-calling fruit: The succulent, the sunrise-hued, the opulent, the lavish-sweet. Its segmented slices lie on a red plate like coins of morning.

Sometimes, wrung dry of juice, the two halves, pin-pricked,

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Scatter seeds on the table-top . . . lemons in embryo.

In the market-basket beside the glossy sheen of eggplant,

The taffeta of the furred peach, the satin of the ripe grape,

The velvet plum, the lemon gleams like a pale, silken dream.