“Fig tree, I’ve long found it significant
that you omit, almost entirely, to flower
but, early in the season press, untrumpeted,
your purest secret into resolute fruition.
Through your arched boughs the sap is driven
downward, then forced up, fountainlike,
where, hardly waking, it bursts from sleep
into the bliss of sweetest achievement.
Look-how Jupiter becomes the swan.”
And somehow found your way
into a jar, into my fridge
sealed shut and alone.