The Fig Tree's Lesson

In winter the fig trees sleep,

replete with dreams of spring,

and within each bare, fragile branch and twig

an unfurled leaf lies waiting in possibility,

here and there, invisible

to our eyes.

Keep watch, the Teacher said,

eyes open. But not 

a dread-draught, like awaiting biopsy results,

the footsteps of the doctor down sanitized halls.

Observe.

Even as the branches tick together 

beneath leaden skies, the last

leaves discarded just weeks ago,

Edenic attire now scattered carelessly underfoot

as if walking into a Black Friday dressing room.

Observe.

Sit in silent, appreciative anticipation,

breathing, in union with the slumbering Earth,

who bears both your body and this fig tree

with gentle, cupped hands.

Keep watch in wonder.

Even before winter’s commencement

the certainty of spring

lies somnolent, expectant,

blossoming forth, even now

just beneath the chilled bark of the fig tree.

Come and sit tomorrow

and you may see some small sign.

You do not know the hour.

But already the burgeoning has begun,

first the buds, then the leaves,

then the inside-out flowers

envy-green to aubergine 

that fill the hand with pregnant, succulent heft,

to bloom on the tongue come Eastertide, 

gritty as honeycomb,

an Advent promise fulfilled.

--Leslie Barnes Scoopmire, November 17, 2023

Scripture reference: Mark 13:24-37, Advent 1B