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.
