To The Fig Tree

The fig tree that lives in the corner of my home, strangles the soil like a hand strangles the heart. Ever pulsing, ever reaching. She burns and twists and winds just to stay. Whilst her leaves grow to the size of faces and bright purple bulbs erupt from tiny green nubs— the roots scrabble to hold on. Forever she climbs to reach the sky, stretching higher and higher till birds hang themselves on her branches. Twisted like the clawed hand below she reaches out with gnarled fingers and leafy tips. An outward cry to God as she begs him not to leave her rooted here. She lives in limbo; twisted skywards with her hand on the heart stubbornly and fervently clutching on.