She Was the Fig Tree

"A man had a fig tree. It looked dead to him. It seemed dead to her. "Cut it down," he said. "Burn it up," she said. And with that, they found an ax and were about to begin."

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She was the fig tree.
He was the ax.
Waiting with hands gripped white and arms extended.
Taller than normal, they were never meant to be.
Smaller than the rest, she became winter's past.
Breath crouched under tender bark waiting.
Hidden and moist, held tight for solstice fading.
But he-- with vision short
And she-- with patience thin
let limbs meet the ground.
Metal upon woodland.
Rust and decay.
One they held and one now thrown away.
She was the fig tree.
He was the ax.