(after hildegard and rowen white)
it comes to me in january,
one morning under the fig tree:
slanted sunlight warms the pavement,
sagging laundry line, sharp blue sky
i step into the sleeping garden, where
still, amid long stretches of time washed grey with rain, life grows:
come and see.
witness: veins of bright parsley crawl through wet dirt,
leggy kale unfolds tiny crinkled leaves,
fresh scallion shoots burst their rotted cocoons and stretch
upwards, jubilant. witness: worship.
this morning by the fig tree, come and see:
a flurry of waxy bay leaves, thrum of wings deep within—
quickening pulse and then, sudden as spirit
flashing cascade of birdsong, vibration
faster than i can name, spinning into flight,
what is it to see a fig tree in winter? can heaven open here too,
in quiet deeper than silence,
the imprint of sound?
do you, like me, slump easy with lassitude,
so saturated with the enforced mythos of futile struggle
we forget the quiet unfurling all around us, constant, holy?
perhaps it is i, not the garden, who has been asleep.
one january morning under the fig tree, i stand shining among green life undimmed,
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