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