Thursday, January 22, 2015


By Beatrice M. Hanson

In spring they wondered why
I toiled my days away
Clearing land and raking hay.

Why I turned the sod and raked
The soil so fine, reverently like
Combing the unruly hair of a
Child of mine.

They shook their heads when
I knelt with smudged check and
Dirt encrusted nails,

To gently pat a seed in place
And say a prayer to make these
Seeds not grow in vain.

Later, as I watered , spaded and sprayed,
My good friends, impatient,

Turned away.
They could only see a stubby
Piece of land.

My faith endured, and when the
Harvest came, their jealous eyes,

Feasted upon the lavish beauty,
I had visioned in my mind
the cold winter through.