by Lynn F. Behnke

Silly gardeners,
Scratching at the planet
With their pitted tools,
Sketching furrows on a dusty crust
And risking labor’s harvest
On the wanderings of a bee!

Are we just as foolish, dear,
Pressing gifts of time and touch
Among each other’s days,
Daring season after season
To reach farther past
Our sheltered seeds of “me”?

Not foolish, love, but faithful,
Sure that unseen orchards
Soon will bloom in rows,
And lilies in Gethsemane.

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