I sit and rest beneath the ripening figs,
their pregnant bulges swelling on the tree;
a heavy yoke deforming laden twigs.

In nearby streets a man is walking, he
observes me without line of sight. I’m known
below those purple fruit, in Galilee.

He speaks my life, and secrets I alone
should know; the silent whispers of my heart.
He understands my very blood and bone.

The orchard's dripping fragrance, sweet and ****,
might draw me from the living words he gives.
I measure what’s the cost if I depart
for lighter yokes: reform my bending sprigs
and set out from beneath the ripening figs.