(to my Grandfather)

One by one, seeds between my teeth
a handful of sapid figs straight from the tree —
melliferous drops sticking to my fingers
burning my lips, nature's goodness
biting my tongue —
Thank you, Grandfather!
Seldom are the things
you left behind, mostly rubbish
piling in the barn — rusted century-
old farming tools, twisted metal, warped wood
under decades of black dust) barren fields
once lavish-green, bent heavy with crop
tirelessly worked from dawn to dusk —
these are not
what have you remembered daily, but the promised
house you built from the ground —
a beating heart-h for the lives of others to happen
the laughs, the sorrows, the many
fruit-bearing trees you planted —
apples cherries pears plums
vines laden with clusters of crazy-sweet pearls
that one fig tree in the corner by the fence
reminds me of you, Grandpa, with fondness
as I pick a fig, fill my palm with season's ripeness
taste the heavens in my mouth, at the root
today tomorrow
each day at harvest I bow to you
and say: Thank you!
(and to myself: It's time. You must start planting.)

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