Poetry About Fig

The fig gives no perfume before the knife. Its purple skin keeps a chamber of red weather. Seeds crowd together, each carrying a future tree. Honey gathers where the summer almost breaks. I eat the whole small architecture of sweetness. Nothing modest on the branch prepares the tongue.

Its purple skin keeps a chamber of red weather. Ripeness is a secret held until touch. Honey gathers where the summer almost breaks. Even fig keeps more than one meaning in view. The plainest fruit may contain a jeweled room.

The fig gives no perfume before the knife. Time carries the image beyond its first appearance. Seeds crowd together, each carrying a future tree. I eat the whole small architecture of sweetness. The plainest fruit may contain a jeweled room. Nothing modest on the branch prepares the tongue.