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.
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