Apple#610 / -27
Seeds once fell
on my land.
Dispersed by hand, by wind, by bird and beast;
seeds of many kinds, left to grow just where they landed.
And early days saw bright blooms
spring joyfully out of the soil,
plentiful and pleasurable and pretty.
But bright, hot air withers and scorches frail flowers,
whose thirst outstrips the scant provision of life-essential resources
in shallow, uncultivated soil.
And competitors for that patch of land, greedy invaders,
stake their claim,
muscling in, suffocating out;
hiding is no game when thieving seekers come for the vulnerable unready.
So it is that truth beckons - life invites - love insists:
a seed must be lost,
a seed must die
if it will bear fruit.
Seasons pass.
Desperate little remains of those first precipitate flowers.
Yet their gift is not wasted;
their surrendered offering is a richness to their resting place,
for seed buried in fertile earth
may come to life again.
A tiny tender shoot
breaks through,
breaks up,
breaks open
the time-hardened surface,
and, with long-nurtured roots
firmly anchored now
in the deep-nourished land of my homestead,
a new plant emerges
and gains stature.
Slowly,
quietly,
steadily,
my tree will grow.
Colourful,
sweet,
mellow,
my fruit will flourish.
Apples now fall
On my land.
after Luke 8: 4-8
Anna Bosatta
January 2018