My Garden

My Garden The dirt calls to me. The seeds are waiting. I need to pray before I begin. Nothing will grow right, unless I do this. I feel the sun warm on my face. The earth is pliant to my touch. My gloves are removed. I want to be closer to Him. I am on my knees now, most of this day and the next. I don't mind, I feel it is the right place, to ask for a blessing. One that would feed us, and keep us, for all the cold winter, and into the new spring. For now, I count the pieces in my hand. Each a sign of hope, and a vivid, tangible representation of a future worth living for. Thank you, Father, for my garden, and for the rest you give me, for my soul.