We don our gardening boots and floppy hat
and brave the sweaty burning sun.
With aching knees and blackened hands
we love the dirt
that nourishes all our promises.
From the coldest winds
and driest heat
we protect our unborn bulbs
and a smile.
And long before she bursts open
and into glorious song
already we are in love
with the dream.
In a garden . . . as in life
our toiling makes no guarantee
of fairness or reward
but we do it anyway . . . on faith.
And sometimes . . . we are allowed
the gloriousness of a precious petal
only to have it
quickly fall away.
That is when
we must close our eyes
to see the flower.
Dedicated to all Mothers suffering the loss of a child.