In Praise of Limes    

Come late March the limes appear on sidewalks
where we pick two, three, or five most mornings
for our breakfast table. Careless branches
drop sweet-sour green-yellow fruit, like flinging
gum to a crowd all through April and May,
until neighbors tire of plenty; excepting
the newcomers, for whom, decades passing,

plenty remains a miracle. Each day
unexpected, each morning miraculous
sunrise in a new country. Although want-want
blows like Santa Anas sparking ashes
on roof shingles, lounges and awnings,
under dry fronds above bungalows, although
coyote lairs in brittle eucalyptus

burn. Although in uneasy zigzag land
rifts, although thirst and desert brown
the homeless children of plenty,
although new and old split apart, unknown
to each other, we will persist in praising
the lime tree spring, newcomers to our town,
too many for the breaking earth to tear down.