Fig Season – A Poem
The fig tree is ripe
Its juice eats my skin
So you may have
Paradise with honey
For breakfast

Author | Poet | Photographer
The fig tree is ripe
Its juice eats my skin
So you may have
Paradise with honey
For breakfast
Daylight savings time — 5 AM
The sun rises up over the Cascades
And I imagine the world to the east.
Kept awake; your smile is the spark
The soul in the melody
The flame to a lantern
Hung high inside my heart
Exposing sheet music and poetry
Pulling it from dusty forgotten shelves
Of time, memory, and the unspoken
Hidden by darkness for so many years
Helping me find where I lost
My box of matches
During all that darkness
God exists not
In grand cathedrals
Nor tempest sermons of
Man; instead—
Infinitesimal pause between
Waves of the sound
Breaths of life
Places only the two of you
Tread together
My blood is bound to water
The sea salt’s in my veins
My drifting bones bleach under sun
Hoping to find a place to rest
Until the next violent tempest