These twenty years or more
dried out the soil,
the salt of unshed tears
a poison on the landscape.
A few plants bearing fruit,
these children with their roots
outside the borders
… but desolation reigns
where bright sun
shows no mercy.
Blame is easiest,
and entangled in the thorns
there is guilt, and wide holes of lack,
deep craters of need.
The thought of joy
a scythe,
cutting the last dry stalks,
a mirage of hope
that fades in withering light.
So many flee,
afraid of dessication,
sure that greener pastures offer flowers.
When hope is gone,
when scrambling stops,
there is a way of sinking
so the taproot
descends,
gives up all climb.
Deep beneath the earth,
invisible and forgotten,
cool water flows.
Not a sprinkler,
not a well,
nothing crafted or designed,
no forced spraying.
There is no way to make a garden grow.
One plant,
one single being,
can only drink in its own absorption.
The nurturing flow is drawn upwards
through the single thread,
the buried toes.
One greening leaf.
One catalyst for change,
the meeting place of water and sun
making sweetness to feed the tendril.
The longed-for rain
does not fall,
but rises.
And in the greening
there is space for deeper joy,
the solitary depth
where connection is complete,
and joy tastes like a whisper
on a private tongue.
The tangled weeds
that choke
are sometimes scoured away,
abrasive wind of grace.
Or soft soil at the base
of one green plant
allows for gentle tugging,
patient pruning.
By laying bare the rocks,
creating soft hollows,
flourishing from within,
one tiny speck in the desert
can thrive while it waits for rain.
And I have seen it come,
have trembled at the unexpected green,
have stared in admiration
while flowers bloomed
and joy became a sound
that echoed on the petals,
wild and fertile.