A green trail left in the morning dew
where I have walked to the newly turned garden.
No point in asking where the dew
will be later on in the day
nor where it was the crisp cold evening last.
That’s all being taken care of by someone else.
I bend to work the hoe in dew-drenched hands,
till the dewy soil, strike with the blade
the occasional dew-like, hidden pebbles.
I anticipate a succulent harvest a few months
hence,
fitting myself as best I might into this small
patch
of the universal scheme, accepting whatever the
price
and stipulations of its brief sustenance and
bounty.
Everything else is being taken care of by someone
else.
O child of God, surrender is a quiet thing,
begun every sunrise in humble, laboring silence.
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