The Fig

The wasp,

In total genes accord,

Seeks out, in flight, the magic hoard

Of bulbs on covered trees' reward.

Mysterious paths guide wings aboard

The virgin flower's open gap,

Inviting proof, a syrupy sap,

To press on deep 

To entrance steeped

In juices yearning to combine

With stamens, pistols, intertwined.

Moving forward, brushing deep, 

The insect's thrusting wakens sleep

Of the darkened, reddened keep

Of life.

In darkness, swaying stations, murmered wavings,

Maddened movements, insect cravings

Transfer savings, mixing for a future full.

And soon the color of the fruit, just blushed,

Begins a turning, flowers crushed,

Evolves to meat, a sweetness neat,

For autumn's turning, rare figged treat.