Temple

There is the weather, friend, trying inside us. Thunder echoes under our barn roof. Dark and overgrown a vegetable garden survives off raindrops dripping from our rafters and soak into sweet earth. The soil we laid will never be razed-- we praise the stains the dirt left on our knees. The roots we sewed into fresh earth spread like trodden trails across new ground and surround us in swerves. Who knew, friend, the plots we chose would be so confined? Who knew then, with our roots at trail’s end, what heights we would climb?