The Fig Tree

Those four years in Greece were pretty darned good for a 6 to 10 year old boy who just wanted freedom to move. We only went inside to eat or sleep.

                   The Fig Tree

              I snatched a fig leaf
            from a passing branch,
                 crushed it gently
          and pressed it to my nose.

                  I instantly recall 
          stepping off Dimitri’s back
                   into my fig tree.
                  I climbed higher
          for the deep purple ones,
                avoiding the leaves
                  which left an itch
           wherever they scratched.

             I had my choice of figs,
            some beginning to split,
       that I dropped into the tracks
   his hooves had made impatiently,
      scraped into the hard ground.

         I carried the unsplit ones
               in a t-shirt pouch
         down to his rubbery lips.
            To make my escape
         I scattered several more,
     well before my mother knew,
    happy with the dozen she got.

    The fig tree was my sanctuary
and one crotch a perfect hammock
    for my nap in dappled sunlight,
 in fig stained shirt, hands and lips.