The Fig Tree Poem by Salvatore Ala

(for my parents)


In autumn they bend the bare branches into loops,
Then build a shelter with wood and plastic.

The fig tree is my father’s island, the home he never left,
Every leaf is a handshake with his past.

This tree is my mother’s island, the green
dress of her youth—
Brown-purple fruit soft as the first kiss on her mouth.

All winter they fill baskets with shadows
of a greener time.
They will carry in sleep the baskets to their island.