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.