Our Lady of Perpetual Astonishment

You spent years tilling the soil. Turning it over in scratches and heaps, moving manure. You made ready. There in the black gold you finally lay your precious seeds, then tended them heartily. Water and sunlight and love. When the time came to leave your work to progress on its own, you watched hungrily. Oh, green! Leaves unfurling bright with the promise of plenty. Buds were imminent, you knew, but in your fervor you mistook them for fruit. These small beauties must be left to grow, dear sower. Let them breathe and be. Despite your toil and your time, there is nothing yet to reap. Each season goes slowly. A rhythm only roots can know. A patience to which you now strive. Watch as your care takes hold.