Poetic Interlude XXI

I've been poring over my seeds, with the rain
That falls so softly insistent through the dirt
And into the mole tunnels and the thirsty cistern.
I've been poring over the colored packages
And shaking them to hear the shimmer,
Growing magnificent gardens in my mind.

Part of me asks, what about the frost?
Tornados, lightning, hail and pestilence?
What will we do about the raging hordes
And marauding rapscallions and thieves?
I have been worrying until I could not see
The imagined green for heavy drapes of fear.

The gardener must be a supplicant, you say,
If they are to bring their fruit to table.
Faith plows the early-hoped-for furrows
And hope adds fertilizer to the tired soil.
I breathe the scent of rain and understand;
My blinding lack of joy dissolves away.