mustard seed

The dirt’s packed hard.  I take my trowel
and loosen the soil, digging a hole
deep enough for the tiniest seed.  The earth
feels dusty in my hands; it lodges under
my nails as I pack it down on top of this
embryonic plant.

I need no supplement for the soil.
The ash of thousands of lives gone up in smoke
has sifted down upon the ground,
pain producing fruit somehow, somewhere
as God has promised it will do.

My tiny seed, the ashes of heartache,
the rain of bitter tears combine.
What harvest comes from all of this? 

Liz McFadzean