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Fig Leaves in the Wind

We wander through the broken orchard,  

where the echo of paradise fractures underfoot.  

Shards of sweetness cling to our tongues—  

a memory we gather like fallen petals, 

fragile proof of a garden now gone.

Together, we scour the boughs for fig leaves,  

fumbling in the half-light of dusk.  

Each leaf drifts away on an errant breeze,  

wilting before our hands can hold it—  

a covering never meant to stay.

At the riverbank, we bind ragged sprigs  

into crude raiment, seams of sorrow and hope.  

We stitch the green to greying skin,  

knowing this garment will not last—  

but it shields us from first chill.

Then comes the sacrifice:  

a silent offering of flesh and fur.  

Bones cracked beside whispering reeds,  

skins stretched into coats of mourning.  

In each stitch, a prayer for the road ahead.

Now we stand on the threshold of wilderness,  

side by side, alone yet not lacking.  

Our coats hang heavy with loss and love,  

our breath rising in ritual smoke,  

ready for the long, uncharted trek.

Around our waists, a belt of woven truth:  

buckles forged from compassion’s steel.  

Over our shoulders, plates of resolve—  

armour fashioned by shared grief,  

strong enough to hold open adversity’s gates.

And so we step beyond the orchard’s ghost,  

each footfall an affirmation of grace.  

Given another’s strength, we press on—  

until the fullness of time unfolds 

its promise at the end of the road.

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