“Fig” is a wonderful lyric to a fruit that, at least in Amy Glynn’s treatment, becomes the epitome of extreme satisfaction, the perfect poem after many of us have just enjoyed our annual Thanksgiving feasts.
When I first read today’s poem I made an assumption other readers might also make, that the speaker is writing about her own life. In fact, we cannot tell even the speaker’s gender from anything in this poem.
Cross stitch was one of the few stitches I ever mastered. With this poem, I could feel the needle’s cool steel, the satisfying give when it pokes through the fabric’s surface, the wonder of color, shape, and meaning blooming in my hands.