The pain? It’s not so bad. As the cold rain falls, I write the words withered fig,
After the one I saw yesterday, still clinging to the bough. What made me pick it?
I’d tell you if I knew. Even now, hard and brown, it’s out there on the ground.
Even now, as tough and wet as hell. Even now, a piece of peace the sky holds down.
The size of my thumb. Come spring, I think I’ll be a plum. A playful god. A little girl.
December 11, 2019
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Aging, Diaries, Figs, Journals, Pain, Peace, Plums, Poems, Poetry, Rain
William Michaelian 