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Mother's Day

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I am afraid
To plant this seed.

The sun is warm,
The earth is rich and ready,
But the days go by,
And still no planting.

Why?

The springtime of my life
Is passing, too.
And ten years' planting
In a willing soil
Have borne no living fruit.
So many times I've waited,
Hoped,
Believed,
That God and nature
Would perform
A miracle
Incredible but common.

Nothing grew.
And often times I feel
The mystery of life and growth
Is known to all but me,
Or that reality
Is not as it appears to be.

I have a choice:
To put aside this seed,
Leaving the planting
To the proven growers,
Pretending not to care
For gardening,
And knowing
If I do not try
I cannot fail.

Or plant,
And risk again
The well known pain
Of watching
For the first brave green
And seeing only
Barren ground.

He also spoke
About a seed,
The mustard's tiny grain,
Almost too small to see,
But, oh - the possibilities!
Those who doubt,
Who fear,
Are not inclined to cultivate it.
But it was to them He spoke.

And God remembered Sarah...
Rachel...
Hannah...
Elizabeth...

The seed is in my hand,
The trowel in the other;
I am going to the garden
And the Gardener,
Once more.

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