Their is a fig tree that is pierced within me
a seed that lays still in my throat
and with every waking hour it grows
creating bittersweet leaves that leave my heart sore
and vines that wrap around my lungs,
suffocating me whenever I ponder.
And yet I am still breathing,
but it still hurts in the process.
I try to call a doctor to my aid,
but they have no antidote for me aside from prayers.
I even went to a botanist for answers,
but they just shake their heads with a sorry look in their eyes.
So I tend to the tree myself,
learning to prune its anguish and nurture its growth.
I whisper to the roots lodged in my chest,
pleading for peace instead of pain.
And slowly, as seasons shift,
the leaves soften, their bitterness fading,
the vines loosen their merciless grip.
What once strangled becomes a sanctuary
a quiet grove within my being.
The fig tree no longer harms me;
it blooms.
Its fruit tastes of resilience,
sweetness born from struggle,
and I learn to savor what I once feared