Lemon Freeze-Benjamin Moore-2025 50

The gentle light breeze

pushes my hair back

softly, slowly, swiftly.

The sun shined and glimmered

like diamonds

on the buildings and monuments

of the beautiful Italy.

Each green leaf swayed

with the wind,

and the serene ice cream shop

is encompassed by people

who wish to get

the sweet gelato.

I get a lemon popsicle.

I get it all the time.

It's like my breakfast,

the important meal of the day.

The sweet taste

of the lemon popsicle,

the color of

a garden of leaves,

fills my mouth with delight,

and refreshes my throat.

You should try stracchiatella

or yogurt

or mint!

My brother says.

He taps my shoulder

with his thick-tree-branch fingers.

I ignore him.

He pulls my headphones,

I put them back in,

I roll my eyes,

and walk away.

His furry

was the fire

that burns a whole forest,

like the Atlantic ocean

once you reach

the open sea.

What joy

the taste of a frozen lemon

held by a popsicle stick!

You sour queen,

I hear my brother say.

I giggle,

and pick up the pace

as I reach

the green, gorgeous park

where I,

the sour queen,

can enjoy

this popsicle.