On the hill where serious olive trees grow
looking like an army of old men,
a lone citrus tree stands.
She picked a deep yellow fruit,
caressed me with her strong peasant hands
and kissed me tenderly.
She tripped on an exposed root of a gnarled old tree
and I fell out of her hands rolled down the hill
till I came to rest between two rocks
where a snake swallowed me whole.
She killed the snake, gutted it like a cod fish
and rescued me from an enzyme-softening end.
Dried me on her apron,
the one with pretty blue flowers on,
kissed and forgave me for trying to run away,
before cutting me in half and squashing me dry.