“FIG LEAVES” by Yvonne Ayoub

Should you follow the hiss of the sea, the wailing of gulls, the glinting ray of sunlight dancing in front of your next step—you justmay find it. Follow the clinking of the pebbles as the waves pummel them upon the sands, so that they brush against each other and collide with stony wet kisses. Follow the gossamer strands of clouds strung across the azure sky, the bend of the branches as the wind hustles them aside to clear a path for you, the tzi tzi tzi tzi tzi of the cicadas complaining of the midday heat. Follow them to an oasis fringed by foliage and fence, a secluded cottage, a secret garden untouched by the world’s cement and squealing tires and coins incaps alongside the corns-on-the-cob roasting at street corners. Follow the petulant groaning of a gate as rusty as a voice unused, follow the smell and sound of wildflower and songbird, the brilliant smile of an orange towel hung out to dry. This may be what you find—or not. Your garden is your reflection of the world; once you find it, you will know. Follow the pull of your heart to the place where your heart becomes whole.

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