Novel & Cerita Lemonade Poetry Book

"Would you like to take a walk in the garden? The greenhouse is nice, but the outdoor paths are open to us today." "I’d love to," I said, closing my book. We walked out into the sun-drenched gardens. The air was crisp, but the sun was warm on my shoulders. As we walked, Darian began to talk about Southern poetry. "In the South, we believe that words have their own scent," he explained as we passed a row of blooming lilies. "We have poets who spend their entire lives trying to capture the feeling of the first rain after a drought. They use a structure called 'The Golden Verse'. It’s patterned, like a heartbeat."

Malaki 'yung bus, hindi siya airconditioned pero okay na 'to, dahil fresh ang hangin na mahihinga namin. I was about to close my eyes kaso naka-amoy ako bigla ng pamilyar na amoy. Tumingin ako sa katabi ko, it was Lewis. Siniko ko siya nang mahina, "SUP!?" "Oh, VEX!" He almost shouted. We kind of became close simula nung naging partners kami sa spell. "Out of all people bakit ikaw katabi ko?" Masungit ko kunwaring sabi. "Arte mo." Sabat naman nito, "Umusog ka nga, laki-laki ng space diyan sa 'yo! Pa-upuin mo ako!" Reklamo nito. "Ito na po, Mahal na Lord Lewis." Pabiro kong saad at umusod. Umupo siya nang maayos at binuklat 'yung hawak niyang libro, "By the way, I found this book of poems, pi

He didn’t waste time—he pulled forward fresh fruit, delicate creams, and polished molds. “Today,” he said in accented English, “we will create one of my favorites. Le Citron.” My eyes widened. The Lemon. I had seen pictures of this masterpiece, perfectly shaped like a lemon on the outside, but inside… a delicate harmony of textures: lemon curd, almond biscuit, white chocolate. The epitome of edible art.

The rooftop lights have dimmed without being asked. Somewhere in the walls a soft voice is humming the lullaby I sang to children who may only exist in code. I am not afraid. Somewhere north of nowhere, a valley is still green. Somewhere a man with storm-grey eyes still says yes a thousand times every morning. Pomegranate. See you in December. The diary ends. The last page is pressed with the empty rind, stained the exact colour of forgiveness. (End of interludes)

A young girl, not quite tall enough to reach the sorting tray, was assisting in piling up the warm pages. "They sound like poetry," Lia whispered. "But with directions." She wasn't addressing anyone specifically, but the man folding pamphlets at the next table inclined his head. "That's the idea," he said. "Poetry endures. So does purpose." Outside, a cart of snacks rolled past—kutsinta, banana cue, rice cakes in banana leaves. The vendor paused, glancing in through the window. “You’re printing the memory books?” he asked. “Yes,” Lia said. “Want one?”

Neah I was having some sort of flashback. The memory wasn’t quite clear but I could hear Luna Cassandra’s voice. ‘It’s so hot today, isn’t it, Neah?” There was a cheery tone to her voice as she helped me make the lemonade. She had let me stand on a chair at the kitchen counter, helping her. A second jug sat on the counter with some leaves sitting in the bottom. “What’s that, Cassie?” “I thought we could make some extra. Everyone loves lemonade on a day like this.”

NB!! If you want to support me as an author the link is below and it is also on my author page, any amount is appreciated. https://ko-fi.com/honesty577 . Also, all the poetry in the book is written by me and can be found on I*******m at Honesty.577 please support. . ONE MONTH LATER Mesi's POV Our laughter began dying down as I continued to refill my glass of wine. The free-flowing conversation we were currently engaged in leaving me with a sense of calm as I tried to remember a time I found joy in anything otherwise from my work.

Elky’s shadow didn’t move. I turned the page. Her voice came up at me in ink: summer in Venice when Venice wasn’t yet a stage set for other people’s romance. Lemon trees that over performed that year, blossoms that fell into people’s hair. Lines about a balcony whose marble warmed to a particular temperature at sunset. Observations that were science dressed up as poetry: the way light sticks to water, the way water reflected light.

Things forgotten touch me now— & they’re clouding me w/ forgiveness, rethinking the time I was asked the question I knew I would never understand, but that question brings things—slow walks, time & space, Fleetwood Mac glistening living rooms w/ home & midnight specials—wrapped w/ the cellophane intention that such question I wouldn’t forget could somehow become a beautiful title for a first book in poetry.

“It’s titled, ‘A dance of ice and fire’.” The book was the first thing I got after I drank the potion. It’s one of the oldest children's books written on Lycan’s lore. I loved it as a kid, Davies loves it, too. I’m pretty sure she will, too. I want to hope that when she reads it, she will remember me.