Judith Fox

Meyer Lemons

The dwarf variety takes days to unroll
its closed white buds—uncork a heady fragrance

that tangos across my balcony, conjures
the tree my husband and I once planted

in the heart of our garden. From it we picked
fruit to halve, then squeeze into tea,

onto freshly grilled fish.
The same tree that later shaded our cat’s bones,

then my husband’s ashes.
Before I moved, left behind the remains

and the citrus tree, I visited my widowed father,
gifted him a bag of golden lemons—

little suns, buttercups, synchronized flares
from fireflies—that returned me to a memory

of my aproned mother in the kitchen,
steeping tea in a porcelain pot, old country roses

painted on the lid. Near her, at the counter,
my father slicing lemons, dark hair slicked back

and parted on the right,
hands unspotted, fingernails newly clipped.