Vigorous and Wrong

Seven figs on the patio bricks this morning,

all green, hard as advice you get too late.

I counted them. The tree gave no warning—

leaves full, branches reaching, the weight

of it looking healthy, confident, fine.

Marcus handed me the cutting four years back

in a coffee cup, said it just needs time

and wanting. I gave it both. I lack

whatever it needs now.

Two summers, same result: the figs

drop before they turn, before somehow

the sugar has a chance. The twigs

stay full. The fruit lets go.

Seven this morning on the cracked concrete.

Not one of them bruised from the fall. Slow

disaster, or just the tree's repeat

refusal, clean as a decision.

I came outside to read. I stayed

there looking at them. The precision

of it. The tree, unafraid.