The shovel is my brother,

a good companion

as we play together

in the dirt…


and I am bigger

for hoping—

as I dig,

as I turn soil &

a few worms

upside down.


I imagine

the tiny roots

climbing low, low, low,

while tiny shoots

climb high, high, high.


Sunday’s sunny.

Thursday’s rainy.

And, in spite of

the July fourth storm,

all red rumbling, blue bruising, and hailstone white,

the beauty

pulls through,

with small bursts of bright passion.


At first,

silent and small

as a hummingbird hovering,

the shoots poke up their green heads,

then, choose to linger a while.

My garden,

solid goodness,

feeds me in hope,

as pure as snow.

Lane Arnold

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