Ode to a Brown Turkey Fig.
Perhaps the cold uprooting squelched it, move well intentioned,
half-shade to full-frontal east. Oh, it's greening, big-handed oaky
leaves, erect. But where the purple cod, double hung, darkening by
stealth of moon? Where the sweet meat lifted palm to lip, musk of
afternoon delight? Weather so opportune, midwinter, St.
Valentine's--I dug gentle, hugged the sinew waist, watered long.
Surely sun's feather boa would seduce the innocent burst,
hot-seeded to the tongue. With Eve's hard knowledge of the garden
compromised, I stand nakedly figless, another summer yet to swoon.
Clothed in lust undisguised, spurned again.