It is not the field you thought you’d tend.
The soil is hard to read,
and the harvest, hard to measure.
You’ve seen so many gardens end,
Leaving you in your need,
With only you left to treasure.

But this is the field that’s yours, today,
and constantly, it blooms.
With hearts you gently till.
You bring your trowel and you stay,
Until deeper soil subsumes
The weeds with loving skill.

You are an extraordinary gardener,
With a soul that finds its way
To that which needs you most.
You and the field become a partner,
In the sunlight of summer day
Or the dark eve of winter frost.

And from that love, we grow,
lift above the earth and spread
Our leaves, full and alive.
And this is a field you didn’t know,
Flowers for joy, grains for bread,
Where those who love you thrive.