I found treasure in a field
but don’t have money to buy it.
There’s a house for sale,
but the owner won’t return my call.
I planted seeds in the field,
but they’re not showing up.

Where did I go wrong?
Why do my eyes show me a future
that my body doesn’t know?

Wound up, stretched tight
I feel held up by every red light,
my shoulder muscles are knotted,
the spaces feel cramped,
and every door is locked.

Or so it seems.

Underneath the surface,
the soil is tired—last harvest
was a colossal deal. Its nutrients spent,
fresh energy and space are needed,
to love itself when empty
with proper time to heal.

The clouds aren’t ignoring
my prayers on behalf
of the rain-starved ground;
they are gathering a fresh
response.

I bind myself to the Maker—
heaven’s goodness belongs
to the children who lean back,
catch strength like sun in the eyes,
and surf the wind with their hands.

A promise is a promise.

I wait a little longer,
and emptiness is redefined.
I loosen up and smile as the rain
exchanges frustration with purpose:

I am becoming a garden home,
with a capacity for goodness
as vast as the blue overhead,
and every child, thought, and seed
that I kneel for will one day
knock me over with grateful kisses.