Friday, February 25, 2022

Do I dare mill next season’s seed? Deep winter depletes even my emergency flour. The seasoned wood is used up; I am burning twigs and green logs.

Will the spring come?

Everything I need is to hand, yet I do not touch it. I am a child, Lord, keeping aside one last cookie in case I later want a snack.

Spring will come. When has it not?

You have given me daily gifts and they continue. Grant me faith, Lord, as I grind new flour for tonight’s bread.

(Letter #2,573)