My plans are wilting, petal by petal.
I never should have planted them in you.
Perhaps you were a seasonal soil
not meant to host a plunging root.
I thought your garden was eternal,
and that my plans were bearing fruit;
but we were becoming autumnal.
Winter was but coming soon.
Now wilting, withering, shrinking some,
less flowered and with duller shading,
my plans need help from the green thumb;
if something’s growing, something’s fading.
There’s strong temptation to succumb
to frost; these winter winds are blazing.
Yet I’ve been told of kingdom come
and gardens made for re-creating.
I’m all uprooted, dangling, vulnerable,
still waiting for that other garden;
meanwhile, blooming, flourishing, comfortable,
your plans grow up, your roots dig in.
It’s good. In fact, I know it’s beautiful,
this fertile ground that you’ve been given.
My plans are wilting, slow, unnoticeable,
but from their death, new life is rising.
Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. John 12:24