Fig trees have a lot of contradictions. 

The branches are a mold of suspended liquid,

like tentacles that have been caught wrinkled and reaching.

They come down into a fat trunk that always looks so half-hearted.

As though the branches are being pulled against their will,

and each one is fighting to show a bump or groove of personality.

There is nothing neat about fig trees.

They are youthful and aging,

beautiful and disfigured.


I look up into the secret of leaves above me.