Advice for Master Gardeners

A Hometown Poem

An email arrives: "How to Prune a Lemon Tree." 
I pause. 
Have I ever seen a lemon tree? 
Not truly. 
But the word itself conjures a sourness, a sharp, 
acidic sting. A memory stirs, a forgotten taste,
a tang, a bite, a piquant scent of rosemary, 
lavender, pine, a fecund bouquet.

I remember the first time I saw an orange tree. 
I was a college student, visiting my boyfriend 
in Los Angeles where he’d moved for graduate school. 
I knew he did not love me anymore. 
On his campus I spotted a foreign tree, 
bushy and defiant, bursting with globes. 
I could not believe what I was seeing. 
It was as if an alien had appeared, 
handing me a gift with its otherworldly beauty.
I held the firm fruit in my hand 
and was filled with strange sorrow.

A few years ago I was back in Southern California
at a conference in the desert, my mind filled 
with numbers and plans, anxiety at meeting 
people I did not know.  As I walked to the sessions, 
I passed a grove of trees and caught a scent.
I looked down and spied fruit 
scattered on the ground, littering the grass 
like abandoned bocce balls, ignored. 
I stopped, a thief, holding the fruit 
to my face, inhaling its essence, limonene, 
something bright and wild, abandoned.

Today, I look at the trees outside my window,
a walnut and a maple, branches barren of leaves, 
covered by new fallen snow, white and pristine. 
I pause. 
Does someone from a warm place 
see snow for the first time,
flakes so big and fluffy and glowing,
coming out of the sky like angels,
and feel the sting, the kiss of wet and cold,
breathe in the crisp scent and stop short
in disbelief and wonder,
claiming a deep inheritance. 

Pruning, the email says, helps the sunlight
reach through all the nooks and crannies,
increasing vibrancy and longevity.
I have not seen a lemon tree,
but someday I will,
I will find it in the sour sting of desire, 
in the memory of loss, in my bones. 
I will kneel, not in thanks, 
but in defiance, 
claiming my own wildness.

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