Sometime
Some way
I must produce some figs.
I’ve been standing here so long
Patiently waiting
Rooted in this gardener’s garden.
Some day soon,
Surely, please tell me, I will produce ripe fruit.
My relatives whisper in the wind, it takes time to grow figs. Three years for branches to build strength, only then will I grow plentiful fruit.
Now my neighbors do it effortlessly season after season.
It must be a joy when our gardener admires their succulent produce,
And plucks a few for his own lunch.
It must be wonderful to become the tree you are meant to be,
instead of this waiting
instead of this worry
instead of this interminable anxiety.
Recently, the owner eyed me, he seemed unhappy with my barren nature, annoyed, by the room I’m taking up.
I fear he will cut me down.
I know he is upset.
I hope he knows,
I am doing my best.
I am frustrated too, taking so long.
I want him to know how eager I am to bear good fruit.
I thought my first would come this year.
I pushed my roots deeper into the soil,
I inched as far down as I possibly could.
I opened my limbs to the sun and embraced every drop of rain that fell, but nothing came,
Not one fig could I name my own.
I guess I didn’t have the creative juice.
Maybe I don’t know how, or maybe I suffer some strange disease. I don’t feel sick and my bark is smooth. I even produced bright green leaves last summer, not one turned yellow,
and that’s a fact.
Oh I do hope I can do better this year. Maybe I will have a coming out party if I blossom.
But the owner seems so angry and impatient. He’s making me nervous.
The gardener talked earnestly with him, yesterday morning.
I heard him say he would pay special attention to me all season. Oh, I think I may get a second chance.
The gardener laid his axe aside and spread fertilizer around my trunk. He dug at my roots and pruned a bit, not too much. He provided good care and fine service.
It felt good to have my plot of ground loosened. The fertilizer smelled of fresh nutrients; I think it will do me some good. It is powerful medicine my neighbors whispered.
Thank you, Mr Gardener for another season. Thank you for taking time to show your love. I promise to do everything I can to bear fruit this season.
It’s a new day. Spring is a few weeks away. Winter was cold but my roots stayed warm and no frost burned my limbs. I’m ready to blossom. I feel it under my bark. My sap is rising in the heat of the sun.
What a joy it will be,
To finally feel like a real fig tree.
What a gift to be able to provide my owner fruit for breakfast.
Grateful I am to say the least, for the new growing season, for a second chance to be the fig tree I am meant to be.
Thank you, Mr Gardener for your faithfulness. I appreciate all your kindness. Thank you for saving me from becoming kindling, stacked on the burn pile out back.
By forgiving you gave me a blessing,
You gifted me time, and created space to bear new life. and that’s pure grace. Now I stand with abundant figs, a full fledged member of the tree of life.
Here won’t you try some of my fine fruit. I believe the taste will be a delight.
THH
3/27/25
Thoughts Have Hands 