If life hands you lemons, say “Thanks, life!”, ’cause lemons are good!

–Emmy

Somewhere in a field of snow
An ermine scampered to and fro.
She was a small but steady thing,
And Emmy was her name.

With fur as white as table salt
(Her tail-tip the only fault),
She zipped unseen along the ground
Whose color was the same.

Now, Emmy served a magic cat –
But, oh, let’s not get into that.
We’re merely speaking of her quest
To find her favorite fruit.

She’d buried one just months before
Beneath the forest’s earthy floor,
Yet now the turn of weather was
Impeding her pursuit.

She dug right here and dug right there
Until at last a yellow glare
Revealed itself to her within
The endless sea of white.

A squeak of joy escaped the throat
Of Emmy the triumphant stoat;
She snatched the lemon up and couldn’t
Wait to take a bite.

She licked her lips and closed her eyes
And sank her fangs into her prize,
But when the juice beset her tongue,
The ermine was distraught.

Without another sip she frowned
And tossed the fruit back to the ground,
Then turned and sulked away and grumbled,
“Stupid bergamot…”

 
 
Floobing bergamots.
 
 
Bene scribete.