Under the Fig Tree We Go

Happiness is a terror we no longer believe in.

—– from Anabelle Lee, The Journal of Figs

In the green garden
under the fig tree
s
he’s gone hunting.

But that which she seeks is not there,
not in the green, green slope of wood –
not in the climbing vines, the windy leaves,

nor the ripe green figs –
soft and velvety;
the cluster of figs

like lost children hiding
in the dark of the moon.
That night in the garden

by the old stone fountain
she found the light in a pool
and the hunt,

the hunt in the garden
so long ago started
resumed

in the circle of light
by the pool
where the children still lost in the garden

lost in the silence of figs
lost in the shadows of leaves 

he children in the garden

with green, green eyes
who hid in the dusk
of the bole of the tree.

Wind in the leaves
whispers
and the green voices shake in the tree.

Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

‘tattoo carvings on the silent air’


Wind, stone, and flower. A terrible power
swerves
above the desert sea, the coral gardens
rise within the sandy waves, a hidden current
electrifies the desperate day – slow pulsations
form in swirling music
tracing tattoo carvings on the silent air.

The stone admits the wind –
a deadly flower unfurls its poisonous wings

Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.