hiding under the fig tree

has become my past time.

“do you see me?” I cry,

tearing the grass of my labor from it’s roots.

“do not hide your face from me.”

i hear my voice whine,

like an old carriage, deteriorated from its long years of faithful service.

i say this in a place I do not know;

in a time that isn’t mine,

but in the distance someone hears me,

and pays attention to my cry.

perhaps soon I will meet with him

and as he wipes away the tears of my darkest moment;

when I was alone in my misery.

he’ll say,

“I did not turn my face from you, I saw you under the fig tree.”