Will faith instruct me when I plant my garden?
My hands working the moist, black soil instruct.
I hoe the soil into a mound to sow cucumbers.
I drop to my knees but not to grumble a prayer.
Sun and soil prays, making cucumbers good to eat.
The seed sprouts, pokes up, leaves unfurl,
yearn for sunlight. The stems, chaste and delicate,
stretch upward, and like youthful dancers
the plants capture nature's mysterious meter.
In August heat, tomato plants need to drink.
I drill deep so the roots are near water.
But I don't think about prophecy or faith.
I think how red and ripe and round the tomatoes
will be in the moist, black soil; if I'm lucky.
You can even build a high, new house.
Take one brick and cement it to another brick.
After enough bricks and works there is your house!
You tend your dooryard with works not faith.