Plenty

"But everyone shall sit under his vine 
and under his fig tree, And no one 
shall make them afraid..."   
                           ~ Micah 4: 4


I text Joel, the man who cuts our grass every two 
or three weeks, to ask what day he thinks he'll make it 

to the neighborhood. And I add, the figs are ripe, help 
yourself. Yesterday, Mark comes to fix the side gate 

which has been leaning away from the post so much, 
the latch can't catch anymore. His wife Simone 

is with him. Sometimes she helps out, like the time 
they both wielded foam rollers to re-stain the back deck. 

I tell them as well to help themselves to the fruit— 
so many wine-red, winking globes on the branches, 

the lower ones so laden their leaves touch the ground. 
When Mark has packed all the tools away, Simone is still
 
filling a grocery bag. Blessed tree! she exclaims.
And it's true. Horned beetles cluster around fruit

at the top, softened almost to pulp in the heat. 
When the insects have had their fill, they reel 

around for a bit, stoned from all that sugar. 
Then they fly as if straight up to the sun.