In my yard I see a tree whose winding branches hold memories.

Every time the branches split they grow new life.

The tree has been here longer than I have, and seen so much more,

As tall as a house and much wider than my arms can reach,

Its roots spreading around under the ground

With bark rough and stumps where branches have fallen,

with many scars this tree stands strong.

Every spring its branches fill with the most beautiful green leaves you have ever seen.

As fall comes near the leaves turn to a scarlet red like the prettiest sunset.

This tree is a symbol of life before.

Every year new layers of life form, bringing together now and before.

 

 

When I say “fig” 
I do not mean the kind 
you get at the supermarket
in a clear plastic tub. 
I do not mean the kind
that is shriveled, and brown, 
and crackles when cleaved open
by a child with dirty nails. 

When I say “fig”
I mean the kind that dangles,
purple and glowing 
from a thicket of foliage 
above a cobbled street. 

Have you ever stood 
at the edge of the Adriatic 
under the shade of a tree 
as old as a country 
and eaten the pith of a fruit 
the color of the sky at dusk?

What is this sudden urge we call longing?
When, in the late afternoon 
of a Saturday in January, 
as you loiter under the fluorescent lights 
in aisle six, you demand to have the heart 
of a past summer on your tongue. 

You buy a box despite them being old and dry,
and stand with your fingers in your mouth 
at a bus stop on the corner of Dorset,

Walking in the forest
rustle the leaves
a watchful tree
they listen without even hoping to be
heard
watching
watching without a word
they sing to the earth
sway in the breeze
oh, my beautiful trees!
they long for the people
known as the huggers of trees
for then they can be themselves with 
ease
silently they 
sway 
yawn
Hum
and moan
look at the magnificent form of life
That has grown
till you must walk away and leave it
once again alone