A Lime Tree

hand, milk, mama,

in that order in

the shape of a Hand—

          a square in the bucket a

          corner in the square

          clang in a shiny song—

pink cup, coffee, urn,

in that order in

the shape of a House—

The old lime tree stood sentinel in the forgotten corner of the garden.

Its branches, gnarled with age, whispered stories of children long grown and summers past. 

Each spring, a fragrant cloud of white blossoms blanketed the air, attracting buzzing bees and fluttering butterflies.

Under its shade, a weathered swing creaked gently, a silent invitation to a world of make-believe. 

The lime tree, a silent observer, held the memories of laughter, tears, and whispered secrets, a timeless fixture in the ever-changing world.