Let the children have bare feet
Let them run around with muddy toes
and messy hair
and pick weeds
and cry when they scrape their knees
mimic the songs of the bees
Let them see the wonder of the seed
Show them how it grows
though we know not how
Fill their heads with all this
mystery
All this fantasy
Of a world that is so unbelievable
this world that is ours
Let them splash in puddles
and commune with the trees
dream of islands and foreign lands
and far distant seas
Let them taste the sweetness of the honeycomb
see for themselves
that he is good
and that all this sweetness
this sun-kissed,
bursting and bounding
youth of creation
all this flows from his love
even the gentle, swift movement
of the dove
the pouring forth of spring rain
even the beauty that causes pain
all is his and all is
Undeserved.

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I dream of a quiet acre
far from all this clatter
all this rushing discontent
away from the desperate
filling up the space
wrestling with time
The patch where I sit is warm
from the beat of the sun
and the breeze sings loud but
undisturbing
and poppies grow there
tall and confident
asking of nothing more
then to be

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My baby comes at end of July
when the berries are ripe and
the sun hangs highest in the sky
and just like the berries on the bush
my body swells
'til my toes disappear

She or he (who knows?)
comes in the desperate heat
and I cannot help but wish that
they had chosen some other time
that I could burrow away
under sheets all winter long
and welcome baby in spring

But no, baby must come
at peak of harvest time
when the cherries and beans and
watermelons are being picked
by tired farmer hands

And baby keeps me up at night
reminding me of the soon arrival
"But we have bags to pack and
floors to sweep
and meals to freeze
and time to sleep!"

But no,
Baby insists
"I must come at the
ripening of the trees."

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