I was loved in the womb, then borne out.
As a child I learned of love laid in a tomb, then rising out.
In my teens I chased a love I couldn’t name,
wandering to and fro, taking every crooked route.
At a crossroads I was caught—yet I didn’t want out.
My prison turned prism, scattering doubt.
Through its colors we walked, and love grew out.
Fruits came tenderly, prospered, and withered out.
Still, we don’t question the Author—
it all works out.
Now I ponder the garden:
seeds go to ground, the ground bears out.
I prune the leaves, and the stems fruit out.
In the hush of morning light, I kneel and sort things out —
the tender shoots that reach, the stubborn ones that twist about.
The soil keeps its secrets, yet it never shuts me out.
It takes what falls, breaks it down, and sends new mercy out.
What I bury in its darkness, it returns without a doubt —
a lesson whispered softly: nothing stays the way it starts out.
So I tend what’s given, let the seasons round things out.
I cut away the withered so the living can rise out.
And in each small harvest, I feel the old truth shout:
the same hand that formed my story forms these furrows out.
While these are the stories I find in the soil, the soil itself has its own technical challenges this season. If you’re navigating your own ‘crooked routes’ in the garden, you might find my series on Gardening in the Humid Cold helpful—it’s where I’m learning to blend old-timer wisdom with a shifting climate.