Photo by Laura Kapfer
Harvesting
Linda McCauley Freeman
I kneel in benediction,
hold a million tiny seeds in my palm,
press them into words on a page,
nourish them with hope
and anticipation.
Can something come from this?
All summer I urge the small shoots forward,
pluck what should not be there. Some days
I wake to see the withered, wormed and rotted.
Other days reveal infinite abundance.
At harvest, I gather my work in my arms, share
the bounty with the world. Compost what remains.
Linda McCauley Freeman
I kneel in benediction,
hold a million tiny seeds in my palm,
press them into words on a page,
nourish them with hope
and anticipation.
Can something come from this?
All summer I urge the small shoots forward,
pluck what should not be there. Some days
I wake to see the withered, wormed and rotted.
Other days reveal infinite abundance.
At harvest, I gather my work in my arms, share
the bounty with the world. Compost what remains.