We flew in with the wind
and settled atop a soil prepared.

Once scattered by the wind
our shells broke
and fell into the softness of the soil.

The prayers of saints
tilling, turning and preparing

making room
for 30 broken seeds to take root.

Don’t underestimate the work of monks
preparing room for you and me
to fly in with the wind.

The wind of the Spirit blows where it will
we collide
looking for the goodness of God
in the land of the living.

This one thing I did find
no two.
A beloved relationship.
Trinity.

An ever flowing abundance,
pouring over us.

Third, a death.
Naked without my shell.

And fourth, soft and green and new,
tender shoots

from the Vine.
In the land of the living.

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