Fig Tree
Naomi says her father
never told a story
without including a fig tree.
A donkey tied to a tree trunk
or brothers who pass one
as they quarrel.
The muscular fig
roots beyond its limbs,
slurps most of the garden water,
the habit of a good story.
Although it’s hard to hide a fig tree,
I discovered mine late.
Nightshade, morning glory,
honeysuckle and alder shoots
threw a green cloak cover.
I clawed off stranglers,
booed at the squirrels,
and finding it,
it found me, fig girl
whose story seems as short
as the shelf-life of a fig.
Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet whose work appears widely in journals and anthologies. She has four collections of poetry in print: Urban Wild (Finishing Line Press), Ocean’s Laughter (Kelsay Books), Broadfork Farm (The Poetry Box), and How I Learned To Be White (Antrim House.) This poem pays nods a tribute to Noami Shihab Nye who has been one of Knoll’s teachers.
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