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I was planted. (you too).

And the Son of Man 

Whispered to me (and you), 

“I have a plan for you. 

I will make you fruitful. 

Keep your head turned up

Into my sunlight, 

And wiggle the toes of your roots

In my moisture. Smile into 

My wind and rain

And you will live.

And when it is dry

And the world cracks around you

And you’re drooping 

And browning and weak, 

Send your roots down

Deeper, send them 

Searching, sucking, 

Longing, and you will 

Always find me.

I long for you

To long for Me.  

And you will be

A strong tree, with roots

The size of your branches, 

As deep as you are tall.  

And your fruit will be

Round and sweet; 

It will burst to the bite,

Baptizing the lips

Of those who taste

In sweet golden goodness. 

And you will teach them

Of the water deep below, 

And the sun, and the soil, 

And you will paint 

Portraits of my face

With your branches.

You will tell my story 

With the breeze 

Through your leaves. 

But most of all,

You will give them my taste.  

It will be the sweetness of my fruit

In the mouths of children

That will speak of me. 

They will pluck from you.

Your broken branches

Will hand them a gift

Of my making.  

And they will bite. 

The yellow-orange 

Soft-furred flesh, 

The slight pop of its breaking, 

The sweet juice

That runs like rivers

Of costly joy.

Through you

They will taste and see

That I am good.


Are a metaphor

For Me.”


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