poems from ‘Snow Calling’

An Observation on Figs


Sycamore figs distended

in a family garden–

we picked them this morning

or should I say

you picked them

in your determination

& resilience against the fractured

branches of your own being &

I watched you

vanish between these branches

& emerge like a swimmer

out in the green tarns of foliage

& shout something about

finding or damage

& detain your breath once more &

dive into the loose light

of your life & this first summer

alone, without him–

gulp for air as you re–emerged

releasing more figs,

seeds of unwanted independence

& not knowing where to put all this

or to whom you should give all this

& why this new light

makes you feel invisible?

Between the skin

of fruit and pulp,

you tell a daughter

not to depend

& choose cautiously

as you disappear into the contradictions

of what is whole

& what is left behind

on the branches

that you emptied.

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