the fig tree reaches out
reaches in
branches move toward stone
inching closer every week
leaves brush against the glass
budding fruits
soon to be ripened
and then rotted
devoured by beasts
or pulled earthward
splattered and bleeding
along the concrete path
below
a whole cycle
of generation and decay
unfolds, in time
too small, too slow
to see with our own eyes
the generation and decay
of
nature reaching out
held off
behind walls, windows, screens
the plants grow
and reach
the animals crawl and creep and stalk
knowing nothing of our boundaries
understanding nothing of our borders
caring nothing for our fears
the cycle
of emergence and disappearance
growth and waste
vitality and decrepitude
a welling and whittling away
the loving, the murder and the devouring
all happen within a single day
another year behind these walls
behind these locked doors
and these shut windows
and these woven screens
and pulled curtains
and all the openings and closings
that divide these lives
these worlds
and we inside
we here
what is the white lie magic (transparent) hope delusion
that keeps us here
safe from old fanged vampire time
and lusty big bosomed Goddess Earth Mother?
the leaves rustle in the afternoon breeze
the fig branches scrape against the screen
and I wonder
why do we choose
such small lives to live?
