From the first burp 
of a shoot bursting its tomb
to the dozing off
of a harvested plant
life remains a mystery.


There is significance in small things:
the subterranean wisdom of earthworms
the collegial hum of bees
the fantasies of the cabbage grub
the silent plodding of beetles
and how ants and aphids conspire.

It takes a whole season 
of watermelon mornings
and peach nights,
all the moods
from mourning to petulance
languid afternoons
to sensual alyssum-scented nights
to grow a garden.


The gardener’s watchfulness
doesn’t keep squash 
from escaping over the fence
bindweed sneaking in
and slugs leaving glittering trails 
from leaf-bone remnants
of last night’s orgy.

For some
salvation comes 
in cages twine and shears.
?

I, myself, am nothing 
without creeping shadows
the aging of rain
and the life of the wind


This poem first appeared on www.utmostchristianwriters.com
Used here with the author's pemission.