Fig

The red beans flowers are visited by bees
and me in my vintage silk nightdress, barefoot,
as I walk between the rows on soft and
comforting soil weeded last evening.

The Morning Glory climbed another foot
while I attempted sleep, and at dawn
opened eighteen cobalt flowers to the light.

One single fig remains
from the promised crop of thirty
that fell unnoticed, before maturity,
victims of a cold June wind.

Will that solitary fig remain
to ripen in the August sun?
And will I share the soft, warm fruit with him,
a symbol of our marriage perhaps, consumed,
and suddenly forfeited this autumn.

I am not like the bees,
enthusiastic before the sun rises,
or the Morning Glory flowers,
optimistic and turned towards the new day.

Four years ago I cleared this garden,
hauled rusty bedsprings, stones, and earth,
rebuilt a wall, planted a fig.

Now I have to sever all my ties,
my attachment to this place and him,
and learn to grow alone,
be like the tentative fig that waits
until the moment comes to let go.
Then lets go.

Note: Bacchus is credited with creating the fig, and his virility was attributed
to it. He made the fig the symbol of fecundity and procreation. The fig was
sacred to Juno, the goddess presiding over marriages.