We picked figs under a white moon
the night you left, your jaw set
and determined, though I tried to soften
it with sweet pink flesh, peeled and offered up
with powdered sugar.
You'd have none of it, sent me to the
bedroom to find the old suitcase
with the bamboo handle -- the one
you carried through Europe the summer
Mama died. That was the year the birds
all left. Remember?
You lived in that little shotgun house
on Highway 61, and played harmonica
for hours on end, tears trailing
the dust down your cheeks. I looked
for you then, but you were done.
I whipped butter in a bowl, crushed
figs and cried for all the birds
that would never get to steal them,
picked and put up as preserves
to sit on shelves forgotten 'til
the end of time.
Older doggo tries her darndest to play with sleepy new puppy — then wonders
why her human brought home such a dud (video)
-
[image: Bernese Mountain Dog]
A playful golden retriever tries every trick in the book to get her new
Bernese mountain puppy to play with her. But no matte...
8 hours ago
2 comments:
Yum...I love figs too! Beautiful, sad poem. You are so good. 2 questions: whipped butter and figs? and 2 - who are you writing about??? Excellent. Margaret PC
Actually, it's not about anybody. Made the whole thing up. That's what so much fun about writing. I just liked the image of butter and figs. Very tactile and sexy, you know?
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