1. THE WITHERING
the tree stood—
arms outstretched,
leaves loud in the wind,
but hollow at the belly,
a cathedral of unanswered prayer.
i searched it once,
twice,
a third time with hungered eyes.
nothing.
not a fig.
not a promise.
not even a hint.
and i,
taught to measure grace
by the pound,
felt the curse rise
like a coal in my throat.
should i not speak fire?
should i not say
what the book said?
but the tree—
it only shivered
in the hush
before the rain,
its roots gnawing
at the dark’s arithmetic.
2. RESOLUTION
so
the fig
is plucked.
the fig
is eaten.
i won’t
outchrist
christ,
who cursed
a fig tree
for its figlessness.
i will wait—
not like a saint,
but like the soil:
gritted,
greedy,
working its slow alchemy.
i will dig
beneath the bark’s scripture,
unclench the earth’s fist.
the fire in my mouth
will cool to embers,
banked for colder nights.
3. BEYOND THE CURSE
so—
the fig is ripe
and taken,
the fig is eaten.
but i
will not
curse the quiet branch,
nor chide the soil
for its stutter.
i will not
outcurse
the clock,
its metallic tongue
counting barren hours.
i will prune the brittle twigs,
hands soft as rain
but deliberate as dawn.
i will listen
to the sap’s gossip,
the root’s rebuttal
to my inherited fire.
4. IN THE TIME OF FIGS
in the time of figs,
some trees will bow
under the weight of bees.
others ache
in the drought’s lecture—
roots parsing
the grammar of survival.
the fig is ripe—
it is taken,
it is eaten.
but i
will not
curse the quiet branch,
nor scorn the stem
for its slowness.
i will wait—
through leaf-fall,
through the dry bark’s psalms,
through the long hush
of unbecoming.
i will wait
for the swelling,
for the fig
that comes
when it is time,
or does not.
5. FIRST FRUIT
and then—
as if remembering
how to give,
the tree offered
a single fig.
no trumpet,
no thunder,
no decree etched in gold.
just one fruit,
warm with stolen light,
nestled in green.
i did not pluck it.
i placed my hand beneath,
and it dropped
like a comma
into my palm—
a pause, not a period.
and i wept—
salt pooling where the curse
once burned my throat—
for the soil’s stubborn breath,
for the tree’s mute argument
against my inherited fire.
6. SECOND WITHERING
and when the next fig fell—
not to my palm,
but to the ants’ feast—
i bit my tongue
to keep the old curse
from crawling back.
(even grace
has its winters.)
i knelt,
pressed my ear
to the split bark,
and heard the roots
laughing underground—
a sound like figs fermenting,
like futures
not yet named.
7. EFFLORESCENCE
now, i measure time
in blushed skins,
in the slow sugar
of patience.
i have learned
to read the tree
backwards:
fruit first,
then flower,
then the ghost
of a bud
teaching me
to unlearn
the arithmetic
of scarcity.
the curse is still there—
but it hums
like a hive now,
its venom spun
to honey.
© Lanre Adebayo
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 10:07 PM UTC
1. THE WITHERING
the tree stood—
arms outstretched,
leaves loud in the wind,
but hollow at the belly,
a cathedral of unanswered prayer.
i searched it once,
twice,
a third time with hungered eyes.
nothing.
not a fig.
not a promise.
not even a hint.
and i,
taught to measure grace
by the pound,
felt the curse rise
like a coal in my throat.
should i not speak fire?
should i not say
what the book said?
but the tree—
it only shivered
in the hush
before the rain,
its roots gnawing
at the dark’s arithmetic.
2. RESOLUTION
so
the fig
is plucked.
the fig
is eaten.
i won’t
outchrist
christ,
who cursed
a fig tree
for its figlessness.
i will wait—
not like a saint,
but like the soil:
gritted,
greedy,
working its slow alchemy.
i will dig
beneath the bark’s scripture,
unclench the earth’s fist.
the fire in my mouth
will cool to embers,
banked for colder nights.
3. BEYOND THE CURSE
so—
the fig is ripe
and taken,
the fig is eaten.
but i
will not
curse the quiet branch,
nor chide the soil
for its stutter.
i will not
outcurse
the clock,
its metallic tongue
counting barren hours.
i will prune the brittle twigs,
hands soft as rain
but deliberate as dawn.
i will listen
to the sap’s gossip,
the root’s rebuttal
to my inherited fire.
4. IN THE TIME OF FIGS
in the time of figs,
some trees will bow
under the weight of bees.
others ache
in the drought’s lecture—
roots parsing
the grammar of survival.
the fig is ripe—
it is taken,
it is eaten.
but i
will not
curse the quiet branch,
nor scorn the stem
for its slowness.
i will wait—
through leaf-fall,
through the dry bark’s psalms,
through the long hush
of unbecoming.
i will wait
for the swelling,
for the fig
that comes
when it is time,
or does not.
5. FIRST FRUIT
and then—
as if remembering
how to give,
the tree offered
a single fig.
no trumpet,
no thunder,
no decree etched in gold.
just one fruit,
warm with stolen light,
nestled in green.
i did not pluck it.
i placed my hand beneath,
and it dropped
like a comma
into my palm—
a pause, not a period.
and i wept—
salt pooling where the curse
once burned my throat—
for the soil’s stubborn breath,
for the tree’s mute argument
against my inherited fire.
6. SECOND WITHERING
and when the next fig fell—
not to my palm,
but to the ants’ feast—
i bit my tongue
to keep the old curse
from crawling back.
(even grace
has its winters.)
i knelt,
pressed my ear
to the split bark,
and heard the roots
laughing underground—
a sound like figs fermenting,
like futures
not yet named.
7. EFFLORESCENCE
now, i measure time
in blushed skins,
in the slow sugar
of patience.
i have learned
to read the tree
backwards:
fruit first,
then flower,
then the ghost
of a bud
teaching me
to unlearn
the arithmetic
of scarcity.
the curse is still there—
but it hums
like a hive now,
its venom spun
to honey.
© Lanre Adebayo
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