As if overnight, the fruit disappeared
from the fig tree. I went away for a week,

and when I returned, even the leaves were turning 
inward. With all forms of surrender, there comes 

a softening. Even the late tomatoes bend 
as they offer a few last miniatures of themselves. 

Blink, and they melt into the background. Meanwhile, 
roots whiten under ceilings of soil; kabocha ripen 

to gold within hard cells of green. Each night, 
darkness settles more deeply into itself and fans 

open its card deck of prophecies. My hand used 
to move quickly, almost involuntarily, toward choice. 

Now I understand that toward the end, it is good 
to take time, to tend the slow simmer of soup.  

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