the taste is tangy
when it reaches my tongue.
but the feeling is dandy,
its praises to be sung.

and when pressed in my clutch,
its insides flowing out,
it’s enough, if not too much,
before it falls into drought.

plucked from a bunch,
and hung on a tree.
squeezed into punch,
and dear to a bee.

free from the bitterness of lemon-lime,
my beloved, my clementine.