They said it on the radio:
Thousands of pounds worth of daffodils
left unpicked in Cornwall;
Fields of potential
losing their bloom
to the rotting stench of missed opportunity.
The harvest is ready, he said
But the workers too few.
Meanwhile,
Brenda sits at her dining table
Reeling with shock at how quickly
Jack's cough became his permanent absence
The added twist of the Mothers' Day knife
in her husbandless, childless gut.
Yet gratitude
as well as grief
catches in her throat:
There are flowers and a note and love on the table
delivered by the lady from church
who has been doing this kind of thing for years,
but much more systematically
since getting recognition
from the new minister
who has a good eye for systems
and is flourishing in this role
she never would have explored
if not encouraged by a deacon back home
who was so inspired
by the prophetic vision
of the speaker at that event
who was surprised
but pleased
to be invited by her regional minister
who has felt humbled
by the quality of support
he's received from his colleague
who was that tired of all the
malevolent and
"benevolent" and
systemic
sexism
everywhere
that she almost quit,
if not for her mentor
who for many years was unsure of her own voice
and worked hard to find it and share it
and help others find theirs,
and each other's
and God's
and delights in what she hears
from these folk coming through
and prays
and hopes
and speaks out for change
that they might not be trampled
but helped to bloom.
And so it is
that a vase of the daffodils
that did get picked
now sits on Brenda's table;
bright and bold and defiant
heralding golden glimmers
of a harvest of hope.
