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
