On the hill where serious olive tree look
like an army of ancient generals, a lone
citrus tree stands and I, a yellow lemon,
longing for love.
The maiden, who milk the dawn, came
and picked and caressed me with her
strong hands and kissed me tenderly till
I almost blushed.
She tripped on an exposed olive root
I fell out of her hands and rolled down hill
came to rest between two rocks where
a snake swallowed me whole
She killed the snake freed and dried me
on her apron that had pretty bluebells on
forgave me for running away then she
cut me in half squishing me dry.