Field notes for seed sown

“A farmer went out to sow . . .” —Mark 4:3

1

They put a sign out.
It says, “Closed.”
It has said “Closed” since they put it out—
last week,
seven months ago,
a decade before you showed up.
Do not mistake smooth for soft;
there is no sinking in, no burrowing under.
The sign says, “Closed,”
as in, “Leave us alone,”
as in, “Don’t come around again,”
as in, “You are not welcome here anymore.”
They put a sign out.

2

They’ll sigh and shake their heads and say, “You always do this—
this always happens.
You always do this.”

And they’re not wrong. This is what happens:
You burst on the scene, you tower to the skies.
It’s 0 to 100, wonderful whiplash.
Parade-worthy palms and hosannas, the whole nine yards.
You really are quite the show.

And for those moments, sequin-showered, diamond-drenched,
for those moments, oh, you dazzle. You explode.
It’s almost as if the coming storm is not.
It’s almost as if you’re going to live forever.
Hallelujah.

We forget, don’t we? So easily.
The invisible terror, the howl and groan, the grip and tug, unearthed.
We’d have thought about roots, if wishing made it so.
We wish we’d thought about roots.
And irrigation.
And pH levels.

See, but you always do this. This always happens. You always do this.
They sigh and shrug and shake their heads.
The rootless tree has fallen again.

3

Oh, hi . . . You’re new.
I’m sure they’ve cleared a spot just for you.
There’s a lot going on, or they’d be here themselves to show you around.
They’ll check in next week, I’m sure. Just make yourself at home.
Sorry, to the left a bit? Thanks, it’s just—no, no, not so far down please.

Right, here’s good.
Let me know if there’s anything you need.
Just, remember, there’s a lot going on around here—
exciting stuff, so many opportunities, just, a lot.
You’ll see.
You learn to lay low,
stay in your lane,
wait your turn, you know?
And you just got here, so . . .

4

After a long day in the sun,
after a good day working,
after a good, long day working in the sun,
I am shadowing her left cheekbone, her right nostril,
caking both his kneecaps
as they sit on the porch and watch the sun turn in.
I’m what they’re cleaning out from under fingernails.
After a long day, I stay with them still.

They are preparing me always, aren’t they?
In the glow of the early morning
they hurry barefoot to the garden to wiggle their toes in this dew-kissed plot,
soaking up, sinking in, the awe and ache of what might grow,
the joy and wonder of all the becoming you will do.

They are preparing me always, aren’t they?
Even before they leave their beds
they’ve been dreaming every colour, every scent, every sound.
They wake humming campfire hallelujahs danced upon holy ground.

She knows the difference between yes and maybe,
between fear and love, and free and bound.
His tired eyes have seen enough
to trust what’s working underground.

They hold me in their hands, they hope,
they pray over this mud and dust.
“Stay close,” I whisper. “Stay close, breathe deep.
It’s taking root in us.”