Friday, October 2, 2009

Winter Fig

Green shadows
the upper arms of the plum.
One loud jay,
a weight, but a small weight.
I am looking for something
to bring me joy.
Too chewy and bitter for birds,
the wasting figs deflate.
One by one, belly-shaped,
they land
with the defeated. Above,
the naked folds of the trunk.
Once, the birds were used to me.
Now they hide
in their dry chambers.
It's not cold enough
for birds or green to disappear.
Only disinterest
in the deepening of all
I once owned, the drink-stained
wide experience of the leaves.

-Melissa Kwasny