She turned herself into a fig. Her fingers, honey sweet, her tongue filled with flowers. Every breath produced thousands of seeds, from the earth, she grew many new trees. Dispersed, disseminated, infinite growth.

I found the girl hidden in a fig. She covered herself with the smallest of flowers. I could not help myself to take a couple of photographs of this intimate moment in which she picked herself flowers and figs. I now share with you to watch with me how she elegantly moved through the garden, picking flowers, picking figs.

An Ode to the Girl Who I Could Never Write

My fingers run over the veins; soft flesh. I push my fingers deeper into the soft flesh; honey drips down my fingers. I feel a euphoric burst of energy run through my body as the fig drips down my hands; its seeds spread over the ground. New plants immediately sprout magically where I stand now in a forest of her fruits.

She becomes the forest, through which I need to crawl. Her fruits hang heavy, the leaves ribbed with veins, her floor covered with honey.

The girl picked some of the figs and gave them to me to eat. Eve in the garden, there was no snake in the garden, she was not naked. We are both covered in honey and fig juices and the tree towers above us; the leaves perfect in their imperfection, the fruits misformed but beautifully ripe.

I hope you enjoyed the photographs in this post, the tenth installment of this series. I cannot believe that I have made so many posts about this little girl I found in the garden wandering endlessly in search of a fruit she cannot eat.

All of the photographs are my own, taken with my Nikon D300 and 18-70mm lens. The musings are also my own. I hope you are well in this crazy world, and that you will find your fig, your fruit, your metaphorical happiness. Becoming and not being, becoming happy. Happy photographing, stay well.