no crows came to feast,
no disease made it's yellow and tell
tale marks on your leaves.
To all observances I expected a good
return for my work,
my precious labor with worn hands,
dirt under nails,
tending to your needs.
But healthy green plants,
fed by my care and diligence changed in
one turn of the moon.
What promised to be an abundance,
became dark, tall and slender saplings,
reaching out from what was once rich
soil,
like the silhouette of a grim reapers
hand,
with charred and thorny finger bones
a glossy black and bitter fruit
dangling from it's tips.
Sickly sweet,
rotten from first bloom,
and plump with your poison.
This far from humble farmer forgot,
lessons learned so many times before,
not to put my faith in the sweat of my
brow,
or trust in the plans of my heart.
For I can plant,
I can water,
but God gives the increase.
God made the seed.
I can't force you to yield what I'm due,
I can't and I shouldn't try.
All I can do is leave your dark and
angry stalks in the ground,
to wither or grow as they must.
But to leave it indeed – as it always
was anyway – in God's care.
