A fig tree grows
in a back yard in West Seattle.
The splayed waxy leaves span the air.

A few green unripe figs are developing.
Hard to spot,
but there none the less
If we do have sun,
the fruit will ripen to a dark shoe polish brown.

Let's assume
birds do not pluck at the figs,
saving the crunchy seeds for us
to savor
and worry our tongue
some lazy afternoon.

The old sage is on the dock again,
wind ruffling his steel grey wispy feathers.
He is nearly the size of an emperor penguin,
what with those long blue heron legs.
He surveys the canal, pausing to reflect
on fish past
and present.

I am not your mother.
I am not your wife.
I am your writer.

I do not craft a web
of domesticity.
My arms no longer embrace loneliness.
The gentle tap of graphite on paper,
or the tapping of fingers on a keyboard
have replaced all of this.

I was never a mother.
I was only a temporary wife.
I am forever a writer.