Lemon-Light

I sit on my front porch in the lemon-lightAnd watch the cyclist, with neat-skimming hair and a self-propelled wind,Zip by in a saturated streak.   The world is different, though nothing has changed. 
I taste the zesty breeze and linger.Someday, I will forget this.  

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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