I harvest some fruit
from my own trees
hiding in the garden
from myself and pile them
onto a plate in the kitchen;
maybe one more fig
to make me forget,
until it’s cut into quarters
like me. Four facets facing
different directions
that sometimes don’t
resemble whole fruit.
Unless you could push me
together or just consume me
so I can be united, enjoyed
even good again.
A note from the author:
This poem describes the human reluctance to confront the consequences of our choices, the inner conflicts we face, and the ultimate hope for consummation and new life in God. It is a prayer. It layers imagery related to the garden of Eden, with New Testament tree/fruit imagery. It opens with a “harvest” from “my own trees.” I do actually have fig trees and I was staring at a plate of figs from them when I wrote this poem. The third line about “hiding” leaves an ambiguity about whether it is me or the trees or the fruit that is hiding. The conclusion of the poem returns to that ambiguity. It continues to describe eating a plate of the figs until there’s just one left, cut into quarters. And it imagines those quarters are like my own inner facets that are sometimes at odds with each other. It concludes with a desire for God to finally restore my brokenness in himself.