Poem: A Season Late

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A Season Late

I am a couple of weeks late putting seeds in the ground.
But here in Vermont, someone taught plants to grow fast,
to be survivors in a short season of glory and warmth,
so I have no doubts the flowers will have time to bloom.

It has been that kind of year. A lost year. Health and madness
filling the landscape with seasons full of weakness,
everything set back. Everything delayed.
A time of loss and slow regaining, relearning, redeciding.

No matter. Spring comes when it will,
and more times than not, it is never my schedule.
God has his own plans and somehow they are rarely mine,
which should tell me something about my own discernment,

or at least, that I am no prophet. As I age, I become more comfortable
with the idea of constantly becoming unraveled and
woven again into new cloth,
of gardens spouting flowers, I never planted

and my utter inability to predict the next disaster. At the same time,
I have made friends with my constant uncomfortableness.
I know less. I can figure out more. I am better at waiting
for the unpredictable to show its path, and walking it

even knowing nothing
of where it leads.

About this poem. 

I really am just getting my flowers in the ground.

And…. I once was a planner. I can still do it. I just don’t believe it anymore.

Tom

3 comments

  1. As I age, I become more comfortable
    with the idea of constantly becoming unraveled and
    woven again into new cloth,
    of gardens spouting flowers, I never planted

    and my utter inability to predict the next disaster.

    -some of your finest lines..Are you paraphrasing someone?

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