No doubt
if food was all that He required
He could have made it bear for Him
but leaves had presaged early fruit
and nothing showed there yet.
Not the season
for figs, and yet
He who made the fig tree sprout
could change the seasons with His will.
If curses worked, then why not blessings?
Why leave it languishing?
Inside His house,
perhaps the answer: His tree,
His orchard, refusing fruit.
The the clay says to the potter, Why?
O God, we ask, and yet we trust
for daily signs of fruit on us.
We cannot grow alone.
The Consolations of Writing 