If we could go back in time
what would we tell ourselves?
Those two high school lovers
walking in the halls

Would we show them this house
we made home
the books filling the shelves
quilt on the bed, mums on the table,
the yellow curtains?

Could we point to the acre of land
we sunk our hands in
the soil we nourished with care
the brimming baskets of summer fruit
the neighbors we fed?

Would we believe us when we tell of
the strawberry blonde girl
we brought into this world
this space in our hearts, only for her
this piece of you and piece of me
in that green floral dress?

What would our faces be
as we told them
the story of such richness?
Could they believe that it's theirs?

This work that is art
this gentle dealing with the seed
this patient watch for growth
all this splatter of color
texture of leaf
the smell of sun on skin
the taste of summer fruit
ache of winter wind

This work that is hope
trusting in everything underneath
for the gracious soil to bring up green
for spring rains eager arrival
for joy in this survival

This work that is humility
the breaking back
and unmet dream
sudden storm and constant weed
for toil that never feels complete

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When sometimes god feels far
and ear has forgotten
the sound of his voice
which often it does and it can’t,
I head to the hive
I taste the comb
let the sweet rest on my tongue
refresh belief in His goodness.

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It is good for the farmers heart to rest
to lay down spade and hay
to remove himself from weeds lush
mud muck, the endless ripening,
the wilting, the worry work,
lengthening days of ache
Come instead to his quiet
growing land
where man refrains from toil
takes a lesson from the sabbath soil
He comes and tends while we are
asleep and unaware
he comes with strong arms
sweaty brow
providing hand
taking load off
giving us all the this healing land
Here we cannot work
we only sit, watch all grow
and in the morning
how? we do not know
there lay at the table
a feast for us
all fruit of his quiet unseen work.

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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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