Paper boats drift in the gutter’s stream,
tiny vessels of a childhood dream—
ink-smudged names and folded wings
sailing beneath the breath of spring.
The scent of lemons clings to air,
fresh and sharp and oddly fair,
like sunlight pressed through fingers thin
or laughter where a storm had been.
A drop falls—salt, not rain—
tears that neither cleanse nor stain,
just shimmer in the morning hush
an...