Thinking about the change of seasons and the last burst of bloom and color in summer's outgoing. We had a week of warmth around here, last bit of near-naked ease in wearing our clothes loosely and feeling the breeze and sun on skin.
Wine comes in many forms, but it's best imbibed under an old tree, preferably one laden with summer fruits.
Wine Under a Fig Tree
That any tiny winged thing
may explode from you without warning
and after that, a long rearranging of leaves.
That you can’t have too many green hands
to widen the town’s summer evening.
That the wind’s smallest breath
can rock your whole being,
root your grasp on a changeable breeze
that will ever slide over and through you.
A lot to learn from a fig tree’s
small white ovals. How growth
often comes in the shape of tears,
yet the fat stem holds. A lot to glean
from the abundance, even after your leaves
have piled up like shoes gathered on a doorstep.
How your life’s work can be picked, peeled,
and sautéed, can glisten dark and lobed
in someone else’s pan. That you can give
everything and stand bare yet full
of sky. Some things a fig tree has to say
can only be said to the stars.
