across the table pink-eyed – not even Alice’s rabbit either – the impenitent sat – stooped – round as a fatted pig – full of pride in service – unabashed by his kill count – he spoke of philosophy Paris and London – his son following in his footsteps - Afghanistan his war – Perrier green glass sparkled – heat withheld – lust present & accounted for – lust for the military bit
across the table sat Alice - unknowing peacemonger – she observed his head turtling into his neck – she didn’t comment on his war stories – caffeine drove her to the precipice of honesty - lemming like she fell – but not for him – the hour spent down the rabbit hole passed – the sustenance she fed him swallowed - they parted ways
no company found – matchless – burnt-out flames – neither the better off for the meet
The shoes may fit,
but my feet may not follow
his footsteps,
for fear of falling down
in the long shadow
that looms,
in your memory
of his dancing
Your fig tree in January, denuded now
is more stately, if possible, in its stark seasonal
solemnity than in summer's exacting extravagance.
Its trunk, massive in manhood, is a citadel, supporting
the curving bowl of branches as they bend back
into themselves, becoming the bare, black sculpture
Hemingway described in Paris in the 'Jardin
de Luxembourg,' where following in his footsteps,
we once strolled among old men playing
chess, lovers entwined on park benches,
fat city pigeons seeking sustenance.
These prayerful branches, grown as large as
the beanstalk giant of storybook lore, cup the sky--
and two gigantic roots, visible above ground
in winter definition, should they be feet, would
rock our foundations. Sprawling out in different
directions, siblings still, they disappear below earth
to wherever they travel--who knows where?
Unlike Jack on his leafy ladder, climbing sky-
ward, they turned toward some
southern provenance: Provence, perhaps,
as if impassioned for home.
Our fig in January, entirely denuded now
like my heart in your absence, is but
more beautiful, if possible, in its seasonal
solemnity than in summer's exacting extravagance.
The trunk, grown massive in manhood, is a citadel
of strength supporting the curving bowl of its
branches as they bend back into themselves, becoming
the bare black sculpture of winter trees Hemingway
described in Paris in the Jardin of Luxembourg
where we used to walk, following in his footsteps.
These prayerful branches, grown as large as
the beanstalk giant of storybook lore, cup
the sky, making a sieve through which rain filters,
better for unobstructed passage to its
earthbound blessing, clearer for the distillation.
Above ground two massive roots, more visible
in winter definition--veins from the beating heart
of the tree--though siblings still, sprawl out
in different directions, then disappear wherever
they are traveling, who knows where? Not
climbing skyward like Jack on his leafy ladder,
but earthward out of sight toward a Southern
provenance, toward Provence, perhaps,
as if impassioned for home.
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