Magnolia tree, on West 29th Street, stands like a young girl in a pink dress. We note it walking to church---Chris and I--she remembers when it was just a bush. We also spot two robins, one of whom is very fat. I wonder where he spent his winter. Spring is still wet, cool.

Inside church I check out the stained glass window depicting a scribe,one with pen poised. No quill raised. His reds are more ruby than blood red. I procrastinate writing about the men I loved. I who have no homosexual leanings. Now, all seem father figures, though one was my age; all were kind and gentle. The sermon is given by a young seminarian who glows like the scribe in the east window to her left rear.