Church on a Sunday in May

I am on my knees
in the loamy soil
wrestling thistles;
rescuing the strangled garlic bulbs.

By the sweat dripping onto my glasses,
by the sun baking the small of my back,
by the dirt on my face,
in my hair,
by the blister on my palm
from the trowel handle:
I am baptized.

In the name of all that grows and changes
I witness the power
of the smell of apple blossoms in clean air.
I witness the power
of bean seeds to break apart clay, seeking the light.
I witness the power
of a small green frog to make a joyful noise.
This is my testimony.
Glory Be.