Fig Tree

by Glen Martin Fitch

Strolling in a garden, I bent
And stooped beneath a branch.
Looking up I saw
Two swollen sacks, swaying,
With darkened skins unwrinkling,

Tapered above but bulging below,
Suspended before my eyes.
Sagging with the burden
Of their sweet seeds inside
About to burst,

I cupped one in my hand.
Warm bulb, heavy in my palm,
I dared to stroke my fingers down
As my thumb rolled up
In a gentle squeeze and whispered:

“Dare I pull you close to me,
To tease you with my breath,
Draw you in beyond my kisses,
Hold you captive with my teeth
And caress you with my tongue?

“Right now, would you again retreat
(Instinctively to hide,
Unable to endure such pleasure
And NOT be in control) or
Surprise me with your trust?"


Glen Martin Fitch's picture

Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."

Last updated August 23, 2011