I walked back down the concrete steps, reached up to unhook a trowel, and I rescued them. Rehabilitated them in the vegetable patch. The best tomatoes I've ever grown, and eaten, have begun as upstart orphans. The perfect marriage of persistent stock and neglectful gardening (my art form).
So I find the fruit I want in unexpected places. Perseverence has sprung up next to laziness, and I am determined in my efforts at avoidance and my ability to ignore. I search out my spade and fork, and I dig perseverence clear. I gently lift it over the fence. Cradle it in a shallow hole between patience and faithfulness, and heap the soil around it. I try to remember to water and feed it. I pray. I need to pray it will grow.
I notice a yearning for growth is in the shade of a particularly bitter crop of words. Gaudy flowers of criticism that I pick and use to decorate my table. It's small but I hollow it out, too. A tiny yearning, desire to be more. Transplanted, it may lend a touch of inspiration to my wilting goodness.
There's a long way to go to make a fruitful garden. A lot of rain and sunshine need to fall. Garden with me please.
linked with emily