Crisp brown tendrils still cling in clumps,

pushed aside by apical buds thrusting

toward October sun.

 

I wander barefoot, plucking coal-black figs

joylessly.

They are – I am – too late.

 

Lulled by the balmy warmth,

I roll grit between my teeth, pop sterile seeds

and let sweetness slide down my throat,

forgetting.

 

All summer the tree languished,

its tips crippled by April frost, leaves

crumpled, miniature desiccated fruit

carbonized.

 

Just as the seasonal chill

failed to arrive, the tree rose

like a jilted bride and bloomed.

 

Come smog, come soot, come hot breeze

and forest fire, the fig tree

conserved nothing.

 

Irresponsible, maybe.

But in this planetary greenhouse

it qualifies (misplaced perhaps)

as hope.