there be fruit

the plant ragged standing
tinged with dust
its leaves wasted, looks jus’ barely alive,
its emergence seems against all odds,
stands stout in the cracked and gravelly soil
at the base of the feet of me
its stunted ragged growth
wind sun an’ bug so torn,
yet so alive,
causes me astonishment,
admonished by it’s dare to be

oh, spindly plant, like me this moment,
sweltering scorching summer heat,
my mouth is dry, my soul is too
my weary mind is wired by the taut pricking of sweat,
an’ thirsty gnats flitting at the corners of my eyes
so intrusive, these tiny winged agitations,
gaining entrance into my ear canals
one could suffer injury to the face,
tool in hand, impulsively swatting them away,
on their account curses emanate from deep within,
indiscretion is hurled to the still and stagnant air,
breaks the silence of the torrid heat
taking with it vile feelings
to the grey earth falling, swirling downward
adding to the refuse on the ground,
but for this gem, this living thing we call a plant

it sprouted from a seed of course,
unseen in the ground with none to appreciate
until i, one day came around,
to see an’ give it justice of deserved attention
to find my own reward and find myself in it,
to greet it with my eyes in quiet adoration,
of appreciation for another seeming insignificant living thing
i humbly yield my innermost respect in telepathic words
granted from my tired heart
to share with it its presence

though i’ve been beaten by disillusion,
by the same harsh elements of our shared environment,
it and i push through alive, though scathed
on this beautiful, wretched earth,
this world not of us, but ours to be
in perfection one day transformed

in the meantime i walk and am
this plant grows on and is,
magnificent in the space it occupies, its, course assigned
i walk on in continued contemplation
while the sun scorches my skin
and draws heat and sweat from my chest
while my bones and muscles ache with lactic acid,
from years of overuse and abuse
to this weary age i’ve reached,
of many sun and moon rises i’ve ever seen,
walking in the difficulties of manifold stumbling blocks
i am still here, barely alive,
with many fatigues and lyings in repose,
standing on my feet or nestled in soft sheets
i’ve tasted plenty,
awaiting the fall of night or for the dawns
coping with the terrors and the frights,
or shaking off the doldrums and of sleep deprivations
of the many shortcomings, scattered everywhere along the way

. . . i came upon that same plant again
after many weeks still there, short and stunted,
weatherbeaten by scorching sun,
and plagued with insect attacks,
but still alive and breathing air,
solitary it still stood with gnarled twists of fibers,
it’s fellow plants long dead and dried,
nestled subtle there,
in crux of stems i saw its fruit hung,
glistening hues of red, berries small
with waxy shiny skins, bitter sweet
on it’s little, uncompromising branches
boldly fixed midst a burning sun,
stark bright despite that relentless glare
i stared admiringly at its torn an’ humble tenacity

it stood for me,
for my frail weakness
i considered the hardening of my own soul
like that plant,
to live,
to rise above,
to yield fruit and give
to live right in the face of the fallen watchers
a testimony of the one who gives me life,
in his honor,
that he is the vine and i am the leaf,
his will be done, not mine,
while the enemy withers in rage of envy
though he was given every thing of life, light and beauty,
rebelled in pride to rise above all things to dominate

. . . let the buffets come
let the cuts, bruises with fatigue prevail,
to no avail do i resist
let the blows come as they will

though my bones turn to dust
i shall rise again in resurrection’s splendor,
not of my own free will,
but of his who grants the strength to live,
of things, like the plant in the harsh face of hard

. . . hard to step
hard to breathe
hard to walk and move and live
hard to in naked stand
against hard steel,
against human greed
against the grain of bureaucracy
against policies of politics
against powers in high places
spiritual wicked forces,
agents of hate,
against whom we battle,
not against flesh and blood, of our own kind,
but of fallen angels
and their demon breed
who gloat in our ignorance,
in their deception of my kind

i will,
produce fruit
by the grace of almighty God,
who made us all
overcome and prevail,
like the lowly plant,
magnificent in her glory to stand
strong and beautiful in the torrid sand

. . . now,
i take time to weep in gratitude

Reviews

[wordman]

touching story,a melody of tributes ,and some of life's tough moments

[RuseInex]

love your comment phrase: "melody of tributes," your summation of this piece is an accurate description, thanks very much

[wordman]

you`re welcome,i have my moments,,lol

[RuseInex]

love your comment phrase: "melody of tributes," your summation of this piece is an accurate description, you've peered into the, "Window(s) of Your, (my) Soul," - phrase taken from one of your writings, thanks very much for reading mine