Under The Vine And Fig Poem by Val Morehouse

No wonder figs grew in Eden.
Leaves large enough to cover every nakedness,
tincture the summer wind. My fingers cup and lift this
warm child’s small meaning to my lips.

A flowery meadow, its green perfume rises
seeded with pink secrets that crack open,
sweet as life’s lost pleasures remembered. How many
loves ripened then, and now, under these branches?

How many small seconds ticked by as rain stroked
awake each bud’s heart? How many years laid end to end
seasoned its being until it grew rotund enough
to test again the essence of now?

Lord, even that coy snake laying looped
and sated among its branches, let Eve get away
to feast for one more perfect day,
unfettered under the vine and fig.