the farm

that's where my wild flowers will grow,
she pointed through the glass.
the wood shed with its mouth 
wide open
split pieces of hearty oak
spilled out like 
stains on a face. 
the land stretches and frames itself 
around the little farmhouse. 
it is restful here. 
as far the eye can see 
there are dreams and projects, 
some in motion
some yet to come 
under the hard working hands 
of the farmer and his wife. 
the boy has red earthy dirt 
stuck to his little wellies, 
he trails behind his father,
stopping to explore, 
examining every living thing.
his imagination runs 
rampant
he is the captain of his own ship,
his little blueberry eyes 
alert to ocean creatures,
in search of treasure. 
to the naked eye 
it is just a scrap pile of wood 
roughly nailed together,
but to the boy 
it is much more than that. 
the farm holds green, 
growth, 
and glory, 
yet to be unfolded. 
it will spring up, 
i have no doubt about that. 
there will be crops, 
spilling fresh vegetables, 
brown freckled eggs 
hidden in the brush,
and a vibrant zoo of 
wild wild flowers
some tucked in bouquets
made by her equally
wild creative delicate hands
and some just 
eagerly waiting 
to be picked. 
i see the dreams and projects 
floating,
fragrant in the air 
and i rejoice in excitement 
for them 
to watch this fruit 
coming to 
fruition 
all in the good Lord's 
timing...