Ficus


 
How can you speak of figs, less figgy pudding
Without first thinking of (yes, touching on) sex?
The question vexes, not least those who’d sing
That jammy, slate-stained, oozing paradox
 
To wit: the lobed leaves that wax yellow in fall
Curiously modest, coconut aroma of June grown faint
Yes, hairy undersides may hide a stone god’s what-all
Though shame-shielding paws prove less than plaster saint.
 
Thus fingery fronds of our noble ancient bush
Cannot so censor the love-death burst
Of rosy synconium set on inner blush
As fruit wasps tryst with pistils, blooming in reverse.
 
No wonder the fig tree’s brand: brazenly shy
Stirs lips to suck on luscious mystery.


R.H. Russell

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  R.H. Russell would be pleased to hear them