Her feet planted firmly on the ground
back arches, head bends to the vine
she pulls, roots for tubers to fill her basket.
Hands caked with mud from the depths of
earth she shakes, brushes, and releases each
prize with care into a community for all. She
hasn’t time for worry of the sun, only feels its
burn on her back through gossamer cloth. When
she stands to stretch like a child rising from
slumber, her face, her heart now lifted to the light,
in the blaze she shines, moist in the heat of his
life source. In the muck covering her hands she
smells his sweat of creation. From the basket
she holds the stuff of his sculpting. In her heart
she burns with his love. Her labor raised in
praise, she tenders her harvest.
Retreat. In my silent retreat I find there is hard work to do. But, in the end, as long as I tend my job, there a way evolves and shows itself.
Written Saturday, January 18, 2014, Sacred Heart Jesuit Retreat House, Sedalia, CO, a silent house.