© 2019 Barbara Grace Lake
The tiller cuts into dark loam
Releasing pungent smells of earth
Creates an open breeding womb
For saplings, fertile seeds a bed
Inhaling all, I thrust my hands
Without regard to errant soil
Into wide furrows newly turned
Of robust dirt to blacken them
What will my grubby fingers grow
What crops can fields like this one fill
Will hatred thrive? I pray, no more.
Can kindness, love be nurtured still?
It all depends on what we plant
If we sow seeds of errancy
Our crops will shrivel die on vine
Our lives will shrivel die in sync
But can we find again the seeds
Of mercy, love and honesty
Our lives depend upon our will
To toss out evil, plant new hope.
What will we plant?