Figs

Left alone.
Forgotten, tiny and alone.
Without my belongings
without burdening histories,
only the present
under the drooping branches of figs.
As I close my eyes,
I can smell their sweet fragrance
see their royal purple cloaks.
I can feel the crystallized sugar
melting under my tongue.
A whole new world of sounds
come to me from the first bite.
The whispers crawling from under the red earth,
the cries soaring from the hilltop,
the voices swimming in the sea,
and the rising heat seeping from the rays of the fiery sun.
I wait for that August moon
and think only about those luscious purple prizes.
How long can I endure these figless days,
and the starless nights?
If only August were here.
If only I were cradling you.

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