From the kitchen window I watch my wife pulling weeds from the raised beds
I’ve long neglected and let go to seed with volunteers that survived
The compost pile I haven’t cared to turn, and found what little light
Escaped the reach of the greedy trees. In the corner of the window,
One of us wrote a reference from Habbakkuk in permanent marker.
The perplexed prophet reminds me that there are seasons where no fruit grows -
When you have nothing to show for all the hours you put in, but still,
Weed anyway, water anyway, dig in, and dig deep. Who knows?
Maybe this time will pass, worsen, or stay. Trudge on then. The song will come.