A few days back, these grape hyacinths were at their peak. As they stood attention, bees collected pollen while the days faded. All holding a promise, that tomorrow, faith rests on fate.
I believe in today. And see the grand scheme rise up before me. I put my hand to the soil and till the earth. Spread my pocketful of seeds with a smile. And water the dirt with tears knowing this too will pass.
grandma at the kitchen stove
stirring her pickles
hidden kittens purr
i feeding the baby calf
bowl full of cow’s milk
My Promise Garden arose from my grandfather’s suicide. The vision grows wherever I land. I have held this dream in my heart for 32 years. It only vanishes with my last breath.
(I have written about My Promise Garden, my brother, and my personal struggles before. They reside, buried in this ever evolving blog’s pages. Maybe those words will bud and blossom too. If I ever find the energy, I may edit my raw words into something more elegant. Until then, I rest in my meager efforts to get across how precious time is. Thank you friends.)