turning (I)

"in the Qur'an, it is said about the fig...if a fruit ever descended from paradise, this is it."

i can taste the memory still:  peeling Parisian

green bench paint next to dizzying Arc de Triomph

traffic, rotisserie chicken on the spit

seasoning potatoes below

the seller calling out "pommes de terre!" that are yours

for a few Euros and come with a fork (but fingers will do)

how like ageing this is

trials holding us to flames 

rendering fat that makes 

each season drip with focused flavor

turned like the patient figs i bought

at the market stall and ate one by one

as i made my way along the bridge under a moon

tinging spirits of Impressionists past with a certain envy

our own still life but moved by 

this light and necessary softness

(no longer green with milky bitters)

surrendered over and around

their prime and ours

concentrated energy of

sunshine stored before it set

while we aged in place

chicken and figs our own private miracle

(like loaves and fishes who's to say how the masses

were fed--in the breaking

or the sharing?)

our life's aroma wafting toward the crowds, come

won't you, come together all of you and

feast

ls 7/31/24