More Than Could Be Counted

Every year, in wintertide,

I pore over seed books as I dream of a garden

a child could ruin herself for dinner in.

When the time is right,

I tuck precious seeds in good earth

and wait and watch

for these yearnings to push themselves out of the dark soil,

take on leaf and spread themselves out.

Every Spring, I worry, will it be enough?

Should I have done more?

And every year, the riot time of summer shocks me with her bounty.

Abundance heaving itself out to bask in dappled sunlight,

Loaves and fishes gathered in baskets, more than can be counted.

I cannot possibly keep it all to myself–

the greatest sin in a garden, after all,

is wasted fruit rotted on the vine.

I must share the generous provision of the earth,

let go of what was given

remember that this gift is not just for me

though I forget this, every springtime.


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