A lemon falls.
My grandmother boils it.
A cougar waits out the heat.
She came to me in a dream.
Mine or hers I don't know.
Waterfalls and lemons fall.
Grandma rolls the hot lemon
with the heel of her hand.
Under a tree in the cool dust.
She squeezes the warm juice
and pulp into a coffee cup.
Water falls from pointed leaves
high up in the eucalyptus trees.
After adding honey she settles
herself on the edge of my bed.
The drops sound like footsteps.
She feeds me the lemon syrup
a few tablespoons at a time.
At midday the baking dust
smells faintly of pine resin.
Then she sets the cup on my
nightstand and lays her cool
dry hand against my forehead.
Fog shapes pass like quiet people
outside our lace-curtained windows.
Her smile is like the rising sun.
It soothes me.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
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