I barely remember, the many times that I 
     have dug seeds from overflowing 
     pockets to share.  They fell like the 
     dew and rolled off petals and blades 
     of grass to soft ground in fertile 
     places hidden from view.  Silently, 
     they rooted in unseen crevices that 
     begged for company and completion. 
     But, willing expectant receptacles 
     sometimes turn out to be poor nesting 
     places for the miniscule creations that 
     hide within the shells of a seeds. Not 
     every seed is mustard. Not every tree 
     will be an orchard. Not every plot will 
     be an oasis.

The Tree and Orchard-Miracles are seldom 
     seen, and seem to happen when 
     heads of the masses are turned a
     way from explosive growth – 
     plentiful enough to cover hillsides 
     and flatlands to the base of 
     mountains. Behold, an orchard of old 
     growth has materialized with the 
     sweetest fruit made possible by 
     branches practiced at holding them 
     until perfect succulence comes – all 
     from a single prodigious gift that 
     would be surrounded by like 
     creations as sweet.

Forgotten are the long-ago mustard-seed-
     gifts that slipped like dust from the 
     crack of a potter’s fingers to take 
     root in a fresh unused heart and s
     prout at this perfect time into the 
     orchard now in view. Unbelievable 
     possibilities erupt when an 
     unsuspected gift becomes fruit in 
     someone else’s orchard – a place 
     where sweet beauty and meaning 
     are grown for picking – but not by 
     me.

Other Orchards erupt from a single seed.  
     Pray for more fruit.

Continuing Diary… 
 of “A rainy day sister…” – Page 3

Today the sun came out and everything was bright.
The heat from it’s rays seemed to pierce deep 
     within my soul to warm cool recesses, to 
     warm the walls that would radiate heat in 
     later hours.

I smiled broadly throughout the morning and looked 
     finally to the mirror to compose myself for 
     an excursion into town.
The tears of darker times were gone, but salty trails 
     remained.

Perhaps they are reminders of times that will return.
Or, maybe they are personal road signs to bad 
     times.
This is not a path I choose today and I wipe away 
     the traces.

My sadness is a memory, but Joy will be my 
     constant companion today.

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