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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.
Picking Figs Read by Anne Tannam
00:00 / 01:14
FROM THE FORTHCOMING 'TWENTY-SIX LETTERS OF A NEW ALPHABET'
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