Dear God, you cultivate me. My roots grasp the soil you have prepared. My view is the one where you planted me. My weak limbs unfurl and sun warms my fresh skin — I am more greatly rooted, I grow stronger. I bear fruit that others pick as they wander by on unknowable errands.
O, Lord, for what did you plant me? I am one in a vast orchard, producing sweet fruit yet simply ordinary. The shade I provide is for a moment and depends wholly on your sunshine to exist.
When dead, let my burning body warm the hearth of a peaceful home.
All this life, dear Lord, from a small stalk shooting from a simple spot. Let these infinite stories of faithful help, hidden in my roots, flourish under the warm rains.