Purple is the waiting color.
And the figs--and the plums and grapes, are the waiting color fruits.
Each with a dusky layer that can be polished away to reveal a gleam.
And isn't the time spent polishing the fruit the time spent in purple time?
Isn't it seeing the dust rubbed away?
Bringing the sharpness of pain into gleam.
The remembering that it's all playing at something, but not quite real.
Murky reflection in a mirror.
This is all some kind of lent, or advent.
The advent and lent, two sides of the same yearning.
Your whole life is that, not just these weeks:
It's a candied violet and a bruise.
Eggplant, sea urchin, lilac, the top of a sunset sky.
It's a jacaranda, amethyst, the king's color, or the queen's.
The center of the geode.
So, imagine the fig, sitting on its bottom in your palm.
Its purple a particular kind. So dark and delicate.
Somehow, this short, hard, beautiful life is an echo of what is to come.
And the fig and all the purple flowers and fruit, animals and stones are there.
All ripe and waiting.