“Hope Measured in Inches”
Mama had to mostly trust Jesus with the garden,
due to unreasonable water rates.
The summer drought had her tomatoes on the brink,
the rain-gauge dry as desert sand,
empty of all but expectation.
Day by day the hope of rain,
has Mama hobbling in the heat,
bad back yet efforts undeterred,
a few precious cups to keep alive
what arid luck has failed to sustain.
“Gardening lets me measure hope in inches” Mama says.
Smiling in faith under her “outdoor church” hat.
She ignores the weather-man’s dreary prophecy
and eagerly awaits,
a Pentecost of water.
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