Day 62

What is it I’m looking for?  Some figs
lie on the ground:  ripe. No longer sweet.
December.  The fruit has outlived its time.
In summer a man I knew gathered strawberries.
Bent under blazing sun to pick them, a full tray of them,
sweetness for his child to taste.  Now the strawberries
are no more, the sun gives way to chilly rain, the man’s body
lies under rubble. Not even found yet. Not even named.
Another fig falls from the branch.  Far from there.
I leave it on this rainsoaked ground
to slowly decay, to become earth and winter. Word. Remembrance.