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a voice crying out in the postmodern wilderness

The Gardener

Words are seeds
sown in
hearts.

We are nurseries
of sproutlings, all
competing for air.

Hope clambers over hate
and despair slithers
in the cool
below.

The Good News rides
on words, and so does
hopelessness.

We didn’t plant anything
in the greenhouse of our soul,
but we’ve got to tend
it all the same.

I found a Gardener
who knows lilies and
sorrow.

I punted on gardening
and now I follow him around
as he prunes and waters me.

Joy Doesn't Melt

An Invitation