Beneath the Leaves
Beneath the warm sun, we wander
through the tangled branches
my grandfather's hands gentle,
like the tree itself, rooted and wise
He points to a ripe fig,
its skin a the color of a jewel.
I reach, as he coaches me
ripe and unripe
Conversation is exchanged
his grumbly Italian voice echos
like a simple song on the summer day
He tells stories under the shade,
of times coming and going
and I listen, hands sticky with nectar
learning from his words
In this small act
the picking, the talking
we find a moment, fleeting and eternal,
a harvest of memory and love
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