17

Where, in what ever-blissfully watered gardens, on what

branches, out of what tenderly un-petaled flower cups,

do the exotic fruits of consolation ripen? These exquisite

fruits, which sometimes lie there in the trampled

meadow of your losses. Each time you come upon one,

you marvel at the size of the fruit, at its perfect fullness,

at the tenderness of its skin, at how it has escaped

the wantonness of the bird and the jealousy

of the worm below. Are there trees, then, visited by angels,

and so strangely tended by slow occult gardeners

that they bear for us without being ours?

Have we never been able, we shadows and phantoms,

as we go on prematurely ripening and then withering again,

to disturb the equanimity of these serene summers?