looking through my kitchen window
I notice my fig bush has grown
several feet since last summer
I can no longer pull down the top limbs
to harvest the ripe, brown fruit
when contemplating my figs, I usually think of
Middle Eastern markets, hillsides, and biblical stories
but today, I think of my mother
and her two great fig bushes
she canned fig preserves
delicious on her homemade, buttered biscuits
even the butter was homemade
when we lived on the farm
but the fig bush I thought of today
was the one behind her well house
on the barren place we bought
after selling the farm
when lightning struck and killed her fig bush
she never planted another
to my surprise, she said she was allergic to the bush
and would get figs from friends
now it comes to me
I know what she meant
I’ve learned to suit-up with long sleeves
and long pants when I pick figs
not only sensitive to the leaves but also
the scent it spreads around itself
still, I never fail to don my clothes and harvest
the bounty of the bush’s summer sweetness
standing in the yard, I eat my fill
straight from its limbs
thinking of
by-gone-times and far away hills
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