A fig tree displaced from the Holy Land.
A nativity scene blown into the ditch.
missing arm and an ass.
end, she says, is near.
bequeath me a blanket,
one you just took off your bed.
all I want. And the candle with no wick
the bottom of the box of ornaments,
a life well lived and now tucking itself in.
says she wants to give them to a thrift shop.
like pictures of other people’s ancestors
stacked in dusty corners.
wants that stuff.
are they without their frames?
sun drops to a lower arc in the sky,
the fig tree on my back porch is dying
the heat of the Holy Land.
throw a blanket over it at night
take it back off in the morning,
by some miracle it will survive.
it’s out of place and this isn’t the Holy Land.
pass freely between townships and counties.
wear what we want and go to church if we want.
holy is clean ground—
No Toxic Spraying signs
store in the milkhouse for winter.
string lights on the dying fig
miniature lights don’t conduct warmth,
only give off light.