I moved the sapling
closer to the house,
anticipating summer esters,
loving its prehensile hands
that gesture so expressively,
palms extended to the sky,
eloquently satisfied,
to show the fig has drunk its fill;
drooping at forlorn half mast
when the earth is dry.
Perhaps one day the tree will bear me
fruit as plump as mandolins,
fragrant, multitextured hearts
sequestered among grainy leaves,
waiting to transport my fasting,
famished senses back to Greece...