What the lemon tree taught me By Rima Alsayed

What the lemon tree taught me

In the spring,
when southern humid air
sticks to the window and skin.
her garden,
when eyes wide follow the flight of honey bees.
No need for sickle,
Patient grandmother shakes
And the branches don’t know the difference
Between her arms and heavy winds

A factory line of lemons
and it was in my best interest
to warn little brother
Don’t let them fall, don’t let them bruise

Grandmother’s calm nature
Do not be afraid of the soil
you were created from clay

I close my eyes
to file this lesson away-
to teach my own child one day, that-
Fingers may twitch,
Feed them into the earth,
Return to your Creator.

Even in the roughest of times,

– Alhamdulillah

By Rima Alsayed


Rima Alsayed is a first-generation Lebanese American poet and artist based in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Her current anthology of work focuses on assimilation between Eastern and Western identities. She currently holds a publication, blacksmith, under the House of Theodora. Alsayed attended the University of Houston, gaining her Masters in Clinical Social Work, and currently works in addiction/substance use recovery as a primary therapist.

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