Last Figs

They should be gone by now, it’s so late
in the season: November. But the quick
ragged bursts of cold get interrupted
by rain, which means a warming.
Which means some fruit on the tree
still cling, no longer glossy with summer
purpling. Instead, grim from weathering—
shriveled, the way fingers too long exposed
begin to shade to darker indigo and then
to ash. The few I’ve saved are almost
too soft for handling. And yet, they’re
stubborn— cut into, you can see
their deep faith in sweetness.
And that too, they give up.

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