and still the figs ripen

a poem for the end of summer

I’ve lived long enough in cities
to lose the sound of a body
falling apart slowly,
like fruit on the branch.
Not broken,
but becoming.
Just time doing
what time was always meant to do.

Here everything breaks
in staccato.
A choreography of people
pretending not to be running
from the same end.

But back home,
there’s a fig tree that splits open in August.
Dark, sweet wounds
offered to bees.
No one cleans it up.
The sugar sinks into the soil,
fueling next year’s blooms.

I miss that.
The honesty of rot.
The kind of dying
that feeds something.
How yielding can be a form
of continuation.

If I’m lucky,
(and luck isn’t the word, but it will do)
I’ll remember how to be slow again.
Let the light in without photographing it.
Let my body soften,
like a fruit meant for something
other than display.

And when I go,
(because we all go)
I hope I go like the fig,
sweet and full,
bursting at the seam,
feeding whatever comes next.

PS. Thank you as always for the support and sending you all much love for this last week of August <3.