below a tall fig tree
stands a desperately hungry
me
sun shedding heat softly
pores exposed and accepting,
I cannot seem to reach far above me

I try it all
hoping that one might give up and fall
to my feet, into my hand,
that fig - so tender and small
will it be ripe enough for me?
can I accept from an unknown ficus tree?

if all the little fruits of substance,
gazed down upon me from a seat higher up
-in heaven, perhaps
each a different life, a different possibility
maybe then would the choice be so simple
as to pick and choose the right one for me

yet in the heart of the fig tree I stand
hungry and unable to spot difference from sameness

the fruitful choices might, then, just laugh at me
as I struggle to reach even one, singularly
sitting in the heart
slowly starving