Wasn't It Only Yesterday

I don't think you will mind, but I visualize your Winter Fig Tree painting dominating the back of the jacket. It is, I realize, a very personal thing (and I don't want to get corny on you), but to me and what I see (maybe "feel" would be a better word) in this painting is a combination of a requiem and a promise.

The promise is a reminder of the good things to come, the hope (la speranza) of fruit for your table, some shade from the restless hot August sun. When the time comes to winterize a fig tree, in November or early December, and you find yourself trying to tie tight little square knots in pieces of "used clothesline" and your fingers are both numb and achy from the cold winter air and from the necessity of stuffing and wrapping, (dry fallen leaves, maybe some straw, a beat-up and old carpet, maybe even a good size piece of disregarded tar paper from a nearby construction site), junk, just junk, worthless stuff, that promise seems a long way off. A very long way off. Aah! But what you are really wrapping and stuffing and binding is a dream, that hope, be it little or grand, which in time will soon reappear and in its own magnificent way nourish you. I love that painting. It talks to me and I try real hard to listen and I try even harder to understand it.