This morning
Tiptoeing barefoot outside into the warmth
Plucking sweet figs from the bush
Today, only two, when
Just weeks ago there would have been
twelve, or twenty.
Swollen, sweet, an offering from the Mother herself
the child of earth and sun and rain.
Things are like that, aren’t they?
That which brings sweet joy ever shifting, ever changing.
Nothing lasts.
The annoyance of what do do with all these figs
becomes, how precious these two, today.
But that fig became my body
Sweet warmth absorbed into my body
Bringing brightness, energy, satisfaction,
And with it, a feeling that things must be okay, after all, in this small way.
The eight year old bush
was stingy, those first years yielding only a few dissatisfying hard green buds
Now reliably birthing her fruits every August and September
When the time is right
When sun and rain come steady and sure
And now, even now, when all is coming and going
There are still figs to pick, sweetness to be had
And soon, there will be pine cones to start fires
And holly branches for the table,
snatched quickly from the cold with bundled fingers.
There is much to be grateful for, even now.
