Fig Tree
A poem in memory of my father
Fragrant ginger rises on curls of steam
from a cradled mug, warm against my palm,
and a soft wool afghan
caresses my shoulders
like the shadow of a warm embrace.
Flames play hide and seek with logs on the hearth,
they crackle, then snap,
and I turn to the doorway,
drawn by a sound that might be your footstep
but isn’t.
You are gone.
May his memory be a blessing, they say,
but your smiling face in the frame on the mantle
is small consolation.
My comfort is in the butterfly bush I dug out of your garden,
now flourishing in my front yard,
and the cutting I took from your fig tree,
tucked in its pot on the windowsill
sprouting new leaves.
About the Creator
Karen Kamenetsky
I've published stories in Highlights and other children's magazines. I've written songs that play on Sirius XM Radio. I'm currently looking to publish my first novel, a cozy mystery with embedded links to recordings of five original songs.
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More stories from Karen Kamenetsky and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Days Before
Chapter One Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. I was spinning through that very vacuum; orbiting an unnamed planet on a man-made moon, under a mile thick, impenetrable dome that made it even less likely any life form in the vast universe might hear my howls of grief.
By Karen Kamenetsky2 years ago in Fiction
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