cold hands held the seeds. I among them. it did not feel like celebration. . . maybe once, but these were clammy dreams, lines in her hands going nowhere, just holding me, holding seeds, hoping.
but isn’t it a wonder that fragile beginnings empty of vision never determine the vibrant awakening of a garden.
and she would know it soon.
-S.V.F.
photo of our garden entrance days before we brought our firstborn home to sunflowers and zinnias. what began in a grocery cart during the pain of infertility turned to this.β€
our firtborn a couple weeks old amidst the sunflowers
our firstborn a year old playing in the garden that he loves
I wonder what kind of garden we will bring our spring baby girl home to in a few days or so?β€I’ll be sure to let you know.
I am a Storytelling Poet bringing you personal pieces, cautionary tales, raw life, and hope. Every week I write + share poems about the stories we have all lived. I am also a Gardener + Wife, Mom, & Happy About It All. Founder of Birthday Observation Day. Biggest celebrator of life. Goats & chickens 4EVER (obviously). So, hello & welcome to the blog. And the garden. And the podcast. And the uncomplicated poetry that brings us all together. -S.V.F.
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