The green bean vines had to go,
and I had put them off long enough—
they weren’t easy to pull up,
wound tightly around the wired trellis,
brittle, they broke off in my hand.

God spoke to my heart:

Don’t fight the unraveling—
that emptiness in the ground after
the exhausted plants are out,
the fear of being found naked.

Know my kind hands.

Old must give way to new.
New is not a replacement,
a second best, or a cover up
to forget what came before.
It will honor every foundation.

There are seasons
of sowing and reaping,
but just as important,
are the seasons of removing
garments and emptying hands,
so that your world can know
the season of everything
greener than before.