Psalm for winter in San Francisco
In the garden you gave me, I planted a tree
and see how strong the roots did grow —
plunging deep into loam and earth,
they broke new ground and planned to stay.
Where did the grass go?
In this cold soil only frost grows.
Where are the vibrant blooms, the flowering shrubs,
the lush vines, the luxuriant fronds?
All that teeming green is gone.
And what is left?
A field of rocks and dry dirt;
it crumbles like ash, like dust in my palm.
The winter sun is weak and mean.
My tree is dying; look and see the roots exposed.
That rich earth which welcomed them was blown away
by the arid, stinging wind.
It chills my bones — will I ever be warm again?
What hope have I for spring, for rain?
The world around me is still and quiet,
yet the earth turns steady beneath my frozen feet.
Still darker days yawn before me,
but the dawn of summer will come again.
So I will sit and wait for you,
tending the garden you gave me.
I will grow trust though I can’t grow trees.
