It was, as always, a renewal of sorts,
the trellis was filled,
cucumbers and bitter melons would soon grace the table
and the winter´s long marathon would eventually end,
It was good, he thought, and he turned the ground
gingerly, displaying a gentleness he did not think he possessed.
The ground was lumpy in places,
the worms squiggled blindly and he let out a sigh:
the world was too big to fit here, and tomorrow he´d return to work.
Today… today, however, with the thunderstorm riding off the horizon,
the vegetables faced him with a sternness that made him jump:
In his garden epiphany, modal Greek was not sounded,
Latin hymns remained unsung.
Capsicum was on his mind, as was the little windhorse above his head,
fading now from the years of prayerful attentiveness to his needs,
blowing Grace across the yard,
tending to his heart while he bent low each growing season.