Many were not ready, would never be, for the real prose poem, but in the morning there it lay in the middle of an opened page of my notebook, which in turn had been left out overnight in the grass of fairway six, now wet with dew. The alchemists called dew the elixir for the weak-hearted and the faint. But dew, as night’s refrain, is a lovely thing, especially when shining—like droplets, these have been referred to, of gold—in the early morning sun of the putting green.
Many who have since heard this story, on the other hand, said that it was not dew at all but something much more like a dream secretion. But it was a miracle, whatever it was, could it not be said to be a miracle? It waited for me to see it, at first, to separate it out from my dreaming life, to locate it there before the arrival of the bouncing balls and the carts and to believe in it, that it might sustain me—still might sustain me—so as to take finally, to take up, finally, and eat.