#psychotherapy - Hello Poetry

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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May 10

May 10, 2026 at 10:07 PM UTC

LanreAdebayo

IN THE TIME OF FIGS: A JOURNEY BEYOND THE CURSE

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