Fig Tree, New Year's Day

Our fig in January, entirely denuded now like my heart in your absence, is but more beautiful, if possible, in its seasonal solemnity than in summer's exacting extravagance. The trunk, grown massive in manhood, is a citadel of strength supporting the curving bowl of its branches as they bend back into themselves, becoming the bare black sculpture of winter trees Hemingway described in Paris in the Jardin of Luxembourg where we used to walk, following in his footsteps. These prayerful branches, grown as large as the beanstalk giant of storybook lore, cup the sky, making a sieve through which rain filters, better for unobstructed passage to its earthbound blessing, clearer for the distillation. Above ground two massive roots, more visible in winter definition--veins from the beating heart of the tree--though siblings still, sprawl out in different directions, then disappear wherever they are traveling, who knows where? Not climbing skyward like Jack on his leafy ladder, but earthward out of sight toward a Southern provenance, toward Provence, perhaps, as if impassioned for home. HAPPY NEW YEAR FELLOW SOUPERS!