by Chrissy Larson

God of the harvest —
Of soil and sun and the falling rain,
Of cool, dark spaces where Worms hide and
Travel through the round tunnels beneath me —
Do you feel the turning of the earth in my hands?
Does the dryness haunt you?

God of the sky —
Of clouds and storms and sideways rain,
Of puddles that invite tiny feet to venture and
Stomp and play with wild abandon —
Do you hear the thunder in the distance?
Can you feel the shifting wind?
Does the pressure of the day bear down on you?

God of the seasons —
Of budding trees and warm, swollen nights,
Of the crispness of fall and the grey skies of winter —
Do you hear the buzz of the bees on the laurel?
Do the spider webs get caught in your face?
Does the circling vulture up above give you pause?

I am sitting awkwardly on the edge of my garden box,
My trowel in hand and the promise of peas in my soul.
The time it takes to grow a carrot from these Tiny seeds will be my heart’s meditation.
I can never figure out how lettuce can come From something that is barely a dot.
I can never follow the hidden pattern of germination.
I can never understand the number of cells needed
To grow the kale,
Week after week
After week.

I wonder, and I am confounded, but I will plant it all anyway.
I will trust that these beets will Someday roast in my oven and
These leaves of chard will feed the ones I love.
I will water this mysterious growth no matter what and
I will hope in the future
I will be spellbound in July —
And transfixed again in August —
Like I was the last time.
Like I am now.
Like I always will be
When it comes to you.