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No part of this poetry should be reproduced in any form without written consent from the author, Joe DiMino, who retains all rights: contact


"The Old Fig Tree" (by Joe DiMino)

I’ve lived in the house for forty years,
The old fig tree here before me—
Much smaller then
Well rooted
Perhaps 10 years into growing;
We have had our battles—
Up into the power-lines,
Across the roof lifting shingles,
Clogging drains with leaves
That Adam and Eve saw quite useful
To hide their sin
But I find frankly annoying
Leading to mold health contrary;
I cart them away in bags full—
Birds cursing my offspring for generations,
Those lords of the Fig
Praising his foliage when green for shade
Grateful for the multitude of figs
And the bugs infesting
Having given them many a nourishing feast—
Stone-drunk, loud and unruly on juice
Fermented, they carry on unrelenting,
Often well into the night their rivalries
But sweet serenades;

Then the fall is past…

And all succumbs to winter sleep—
Never severe in the high desert
And always a certain majesty
To the old monarch—
His gigantic, bare, resting skeleton
Bathing the house and yard
In lacy shadows
So delicate
One thinks of gossamer wings
Imagines harps
Feeling a swell of love
Larger than any single heart can hold;
It is in the quiet,
In the season of many silences
I privately tell him
That if you do not sense me
Beneath you in the new spring
Gazing up at you in awe
This two legged featherless bird,
Fret not—
It is only because death has blessed me,
Given me my wings
My spirit now somewhere nearer
Your long coveted branches—

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