When summer’s sweet brown figs
hung heavily, Fig Man
invited neighbors
to share the sweet harvest.
"Half for birds, half for us,"
he admonished.
I was always careful to obey,
picking only from the netted side.
Yesterday, I learned he died.
Today, I walked over to
give condolences.
As I rounded the corner, I saw
crows, kites, grackles
gathered silently—
some on the lawn
facing the house,
others, standing sentinel
along the roof’s crest.
Proceeding, I nodded,
Acknowledgement to those birds,
paying their respect,
as I was paying mine.
Before ringing the doorbell,
I glanced down the drive
at the fig tree.
Usually still green at
this time of year, today
it was bereft of leaves,
a twisted mass
of barren branches.
Together, we mourned them both,
Fig Man and his tree.
Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. Her poems, essays, articles, and short stories ahve been internatinallly published in journals ranging form anti-heroin chic, to Eastern Iowa Review to Sasee and the Washington Post. She performs tales of food, family, and strong women in museums, schools, libraries, and at festivals. When she is not on the computer or on a stage, you can find her walking the beach or curled up with a good book.
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