Sunkissed Lemons

 Sunkissed Lemons

Daffodil dawn spilled light into her room as  

she entered her gardens and found the forms.

The air smelled of smoke and sacred sage. 

She cut the long field low and let the light

grid her dying grass. She held two globes

to compare. The rare color of the first 

seemed ethereal and sublime. 

Bright, brilliant, and glorious, 

like two radiant golden suns. 

She would have squeezed it, drinken its blood 

sip by sip, honey lemonade, but she insisted she conserve 

the circle, because it is perfect. Flesh and bitter skin

were not meant to part. 

The seeds were safe.

The seeds were together. 

The seeds were at home. 

She studied the perfusion. Then, with a voice like

like butterfly wings breaking a cocoon, said, 

“Humans could never have crafted this. 

Artery, capillary, fiber, and pulp. 

The rind like a halo. The leaves like wings.” 

But nothing gold can stay. 

For if she did not eat it, it would rot 

and return to mother Earth. 

She made herself slice it, 

admired its divine shape. 

And when she held the sliver up to the rising sun, 

it blazed and burned her fragile human eyes. 

She peeled it, ate it section by section, 

and the biting acids of the sobbing citrus  

burned her throat like splendid golden tears.