I feel winter's grasp around the very being of my soul.
It twists and turns with a desperation and tenacity that uncouths my being.
Trying to squeeze out any pulp or sustenance whenever it's convienent.
Although already spoiled and soured and bitter, it must'nt stop for there has to be more.
There's always more to take, even if all the lemons are gone.
Go farther into the roots, tap into the sap that runs along its trunk and branches.
Life has given me lemons so why not take every single one of them for a glass of lemonade?
My leaves turn yellow with fear but I must continue to keep giving.
To keep producing lemons, to keep the leaves green.
For if I can't anymore then what is my use? Where shall I quench my thirst?
The gardener who provides water and shelter shall surely cut down my tree if it no longer provides and only takes space.
But what is a lemon tree to demand such intricacies?