Untilled

It’s so hard not knowing tomorrow.

Or next month.

Or next year — our beautiful stories

buried,

waiting to bud.

Photo by imsogabriel stock on Unsplash

Untilled 
Mark 4:27

Our trowels hang from heavy belts 
and we stoop to scoop
for untilled dirt, 
some turn of root
to excavate hints 
of a whispered where,
pilfer a glimpse of the soil’s blueprint,
prepare for now, shovel the when,
spade plunged below, 
grovel to our know 
on mud-caked knees, bent
for why 
this fate, this flood unleashing 
the wail 
against our wait—we’re asked 
to scatter seed
and sleep, uncurl our bodies 
to the skies,
unbelt our burdens from time’s waist— 
for what is underground, we know not how
nor could imagine that en-earthed glory—
germination of buried story.

This poem was first published in my collection, All the Untils.

Purchase Here: All the Untils

Or if you are near Tyler, Texas, come join the celebration of All the Untils next week!