Seeds

Each question is a seed
planted in the garden
of our heart's own longing,
and we the soil that bears it up,
we, the seasons that sustain,
deliberate seasons, seasons of chance
the dry seasons and seasons of rain.
O, seasons of hope, seasons of joy
of love, of death, and remembrance:
Each brings its own nourishment
drawing out the tender shoot,
sending it upward toward the Sun,
pushing the answer to the surface
forcing the fruit to ripen in us.

© 6.30.2016 Paul Wittenberger