Picking Figs

​

She rings me in the early evening

– my first born lately flown the nest –

to tell me they’ve been picking figs

from trees growing on his father’s land.

​

She tells me of their plans to make fig jam.

I let the phrase settle in my ear,

say it to myself to taste it on my tongue;

close my eyes, see a table set for breakfast

– the winter Spanish sun still warm

across the walls and tiles –

​

the two of them sitting in easy silence:

one drinking the last of freshly squeezed orange juice,

the other spreading fig jam on crusty bread,

days of such mornings behind them,

days of such mornings ahead.