I’ve never seen a lemon tree; or, I’ve seen not knowing. It’s entirely possible to look at a tree and, if think at all, think only: “there’s a tree.” To be aware that something exists in all it’s particulars outside of your understanding is a peculiar type of knowing. From something very small, a word perhaps, or a name, the idea takes on weight and shape. It roots and flowers and blooms, bears fruit, seed, and sapling, through multiplying generations of bewilderment.
There’s a cool shade between the lines of trees. A human voice is singing: “I do not know! I do not know!” The sound echoes off the wood; the orchard itself is singing.
Two lovers lie beneath the trees. They decide to look together through the leafy branches for the sky and tell each other what they see: a leafy sky that’s filled with suns! Dark green leaves like holes in the light!