Figs July 26, 2021

Last spring’s rain pounded
the earth — riverine flows
danced over iron-red
soil.

While hydrangeas chanted
praises. And mild temps
made lilies and asters
saunter upwards.

July slid in, and the
fig tree was cloaked in scent
like a bottle of Joy perfume
left unstoppered.

Its palmate leaves hummed, and
quickly assembled hundreds
of purple-dressed fruit, they
dropped off sticky stems.

Pods of living jam, they were
too sweet, too many–small orbs
of candy flesh splitting skins
two sizes too small,

Like jeans bought at 18
I too have ripened.

Gary D. Grossman
Last Stanza Poetry Journal #7, 2022