Image by Becka Choat

The Poet’s Prayer, at Harvest-Time

I have planted neither
field nor orchard.

My seeds are words.
I have sown them, here
in this small home-plot,
and any that were left
I have flung to the wind.
You alone, O Lord, know
where they have scattered,
whether they have taken root,
what fruit they have borne.

Many seem to have fallen
in poor soil, or on stones.

At harvest-time, I have nothing
to gather in baskets and lay
upon the altar. And so I kneel,
wordless, and stretch out
before you my empty hands,
which you fill again with seeds.

*****

Becka Choat is a lifelong lover of words who spends many hours each week in a room of her own, writing or reading and drinking coffee. Her book reviews can be found at www.beckasbookreview.wordpress.com, and her poetry and other musings at www.beckachoat.wordpress.com. You may…