Grace Notes


I had a little lemon tree…

I had a little lemon tree, it would not bear the cold. Planted in the sunniest spot, all on its own. Doused daily with the recommended dose of toddler swill. A Meyer, never had a chance its foliage looking ill. No matter how loved, or willed to live on, its planting misplaced – stood stubbornly on.

But now in sunnier microclimes our garden full of green. All sorts of wild things grown, anything with sticks and leaves. Still, a little lemon tree was tucked inside the bed. Hoping one day fruit to bear, no longer being misled.


How to hide a unicorn.

No creature stirred the imagination as much as a horse with horn. Their prose, illustrations, soft rainbow dedications, bliss. Take the ache out of reality – don’t say they don’t exist! No, not on medications. 

The stuff of dreams and fairy tales, in fantasy worlds ridden by dames with veils. They carry you to a place where anyone can be anything. The noble steed of make believe. Those who are not believed find welcome relief, a so-called mythical beast. 

A willing friend to weather the storm, the dark, the heat. Where to hide such beauty, under your seat? In the garage, under the bed, in a hobo shed? Up a chimney with Claus a fellow fantastical friend?

In a submarine never seen, a constellation of stars, across the universe and in between? Is a pile of unicorn chocolate coin at rainbows’ end, I’d like to see. A wild ass, no mystery, they’re flung through natural history.

Don’t trust me, wiki says it’s true. Greeks and geeks know a thing or two. Not a matter of mythology but exotic zoology. Nonsense – only captured by virgins, to lay in her lap and sleep on her, sure? They make the poisoned chalice pure. It’s wild and untamable, no shame, not blameable. Job’s proverbial pride, Isaiah comes down from on high. For her, so do I.

Lend me your ears else it brings us to tears. The odds are one in a million years.

Flow that rainbow faux hawk and mo and take up space for a horned horse to grow. Deny-ers have their minds where the sun don’t go. Parade your beauty down Davey street and tell the nay sayers, who are you to speak? Are they real enough to own their own? A unicorn can, can you?