Editor’s note: This poem is part of the Work and Hope series.

Oh how you love your one dear life, this
thrust of spade in pungent loamy earth,
turning it, softening it, hands on shaft and
grip, foot pressing the blade, your blood
coursing strong, limbs limber, greeting
this fertile ground and ground as it yields
greeting you back, and seeds will soon be
sown, buried, and you’re dreaming as you
work of green, of sprigs and leaves, of
burrowing roots, of harvest to eat and to
preserve. You contemplate what weather,
what watchfulness, will still be needed for 
hope to flourish, and every motion wearies
you but also is your bliss, you alive upon
the vast terrain and mystery of birth and
death and – in between – the growing.
And something else in you as well: a joy,
sweet and true, for the kingdom of heaven
is like treasure hidden in a field, which
you once found, now give your all to keep.