Figs

Figs


August is the time for figs.
California's household fig trees go mad with ripeness
And huge black-red fruits then burgeon in the trees.
Picking figs is the ultimate hunt for treasure.
Funny how, huge and dark, they hide
Amongst the shadows of the leaves.
These are the words that go with figs:
Fecund, swollen, swelling, honeyed;
Sexual words written in their curving forms
And fabled sweetness.

I wrote that poem in 2006.  I was much closer in touch with poems, words, inner self, outer self...everything, just five years ago. Strange.  Does "aging" mean "distancing?"  I hope not. I still hope for the stars to circle round in my inner universe sky and swing me back to my poetry once more.  I have the sneaking suspicion that it is drudging practice that I am missing after all. Poem a day, and if it's trash, so what? Nothing is as valueless as aridity, is it?YAZZYBEL