Far from drying up and blowing away, it seems to me that the withered fig tree of the Gospel is alive and well within me, within all of us.
No, I'm not in any way, shape or form religious; and yet. . . . On this red-hot July Sunday I think of the persistence of memory, and my assignations in Berkeley when making love was a form of prayer.
Slate-gray, the lake seems painted, like Coleridge's ocean. The Artist has cleverly concealed. . . . What? If I could pray, who would I pray to?
Oh, but I know, sipping a chardonnay in this silent living room—
Our Lady of the Passing Hours.
cut lilacs on the sill
gently parting the leaves—