I sang
the Magnificat
over the garden.

It died
anyway.

He has
not forgotten.


 

Hope*writer’s challenge of the day: “start.”

I scribbled this poem down, months ago, when the squash bugs devoured my pumpkin and cucumber vines.

Dramatically, I really had sung to my plants – not in some last ditch effort to bring them back to life but just because they looked like they could use a lullaby.

Today, as I was considering the prompt to “start,” I looked out at my newly planted garden beds with their neat rows and giant mounds.

Perhaps my squashes will do better this year; I’m learning all about larvae and viruses and healthy soil.  But even if they don’t, I think I’ll keep planting anyway.

After all, when the Gardener planted His own garden, He knew there would be a Fall.  But He sowed the trees and breathed Himself into the dirt anyway.

His mother sang her welcome over a life that she knew would end in death.

Perhaps our success lies – not in the outcome – but in simply planting seeds.

So write your poem.  Paint your canvas.  Take your class.  Make your call.

Sure, plants wither.  Scores flop.  Publishers reject.  Lovers leave.

But grow anyway.  Sing anyway.  Write anyway.  Love anyway.

We’ve been imbued with the wild hope that we will say that it is good.

 

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