Still blooming

We planted seed
a lunar time ago.
Moon has waxed and waned,
rain come down,
puddles stream to wash our hopes away,
winds blown cold and mild,
some frost descended;
but sunshine also,
dancing with the joy of May buttercups
and daisies on our lawns.
The young shoot feels the pain
of forcing through
the earth chilled hard and unyielding,
but still our blossom beckons.

I'm a rotten gardener.
I interfere too much.
If anything I plant should flourish
the miracle is another's,
not my own.

But that is what it is:
a miracle.
Another's hand tends our lives
and brings our fruit to term.
Scarlet as the blood racing through our hearts,
rose petals scent
the gardener and the gardened,
the tiller and the tilled.

Seed time may be done,
these four weeks or more,
but harvest has long months
of climate change
to wither grapes upon our vine.
The sower sees
so many seeds blown away
or taken by the birds
whose voices crow like carrion.
We live on a small island,
ever victim to Atlantic storms.
We shelter in each other's arms.

I have had to learn
to let the growing follow
its own green logic.

God give me grace
to let it be so.

05/06/08, 2.40pm