The Fig Tree

The fig tree sits bare in winter,
Its leaves long gone to decay;
now a part of the roots that shift
through the dirt of my mind.
I spy its structure;
the posture so stern
the limbs so unbending.
In the morning fog,
it hold mysteries in the graying bark.
Within the garden of innocence
the fig tree offers a shield
to protect the new blooms from decadence.
I ask now where is my innocence?
The fig tree gives no answer
and though I wait, time bears no fruit.

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An ode to my fig tree...now bare of leaves..limbs exposed.