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.

The 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.

Last Stanza Poetry Journal #7, 2022