Holy Ground

by Mary Folkerts

HOLY GROUND

I.

White winter 

blankets the soil 

where I bed my dahlias and onions. 

Thick drifts, chest high 

thrown by wind’s 

creative hand 

lie unmarred by critter’s feet 

and hungry deer,

in search of last year’s 

offerings. 

Snow mounds on

brittle hydrangea heads

nodding submission 

in the bitter breeze—

this too 

shall pass.

II.

Its stubborn grip

holds no match for the 

gentle strength of the 

warming sun

sunken drifts,

forming rivulets 

creating pools

returning deep 

into the earth, leaving

muddy footprints where the

children splashed,

and the poke of the first 

green fiddlehead 

emerges

declaring victory.

III.

The incessant morning chatter

of birds, declaring 

their joy in the dappled shade

serenade me—

watering, weeding, 

digging, tending 

before the heat of high noon

droops the 

delicate ranunculus

and I. 

This dirt,

this holy ground

where I kneel,

that births both thistle 

and rudbeckia—

like I—

it tethers me to the Gardener 

as He moves through the roses 

and the cosmos,

breathing a fresh wind,

lifting my eyes to 

the colors He’s splashed

across the western horizon,

in wild joy—

an artist

leaving his signature.

IV.

The leggy petunias

and the yellowing daylilies

speak of wearied joy,

while the aster shakes out

her pretty dress, revealing reds

and purple.

All in their time–

the wilted potato vine

bows its head to the golden corn

standing tall, its silken stocks

swaying in the autumn 

breeze,

the V of geese calling

their farewell. 

V.

This garden of seasons, where 

tenacious hope springs 

eternal,

where persistent warmth

holds power over harsh,

bitter winds

and tiny seeds produce 

a cornucopia of harvest

and lessons–

like how dying comes 

before birth,

unchecked weeds

beget more,

and a well-watered tree

grows roots

deep enough 

to stand against the battering

winds.

This partnership of 

unequals,

where I tend a flower

and He 

my soul. 



MARY FOLKERTS

Mary Folkerts is a mom to four grown kids and wife to a farmer, living on the southern prairies of Canada, where the skies are large and the sunsets stunning. Mary writes with a desire to push back the dark, especially for those struggling with anxiety and depression. She is also an advocate for those with Down Syndrome, as their youngest child introduced them to this extraordinary new world. 

WebsiteInstagramFacebookSubstack


Previous
Previous

Matriarch: A Meditation in Poetry and Photography

Next
Next

Quarter-Acre Plot