Friday, September 23, 2011

The Fig of It

I find a fig tree circled

by its own, fallen fruit.

The carpet of rot permits me

to pull a soft, ripe drop

of sweetness and eat.

O, audible flavor!

The fig’s each seed

tells the mouth a story

of what may grow

with right soil, light, and rain.

Each seed of my life

asks to grow, tended, into

a useful, beautiful yield.

Each seed blooms toward fruit

with every hope of sharing

its own reward.

I mourn small losses:

figs that missed

a table of friends & cheese,

figs that won’t know

the steep of time, jarred

‘til winter hunger wakes them.

Make my life this:
a ready harvest

given, taken, tasted.


Markie said...

SUCH a good poem. I felt every thought.

Heather said...

Wow - it is good to hear your Voice afresh, the goodness of it is tasted!

Pam said...

Wonderful poem, Anna.

Garris Elkins said...

Makes me think of the figs and drizzle with cheese you made for us once upon and time. Tasted it all as I read.