“So neither the one who plants
nor the one who waters is anything,
but only God, who makes things grow.”
1 Corinthians 3:7
Sea-foam walls are my plow field.
Bubbles wands, wooden blocks—
my chosen toiling tools.
The Wind sleeps
and God makes it grow.
Wide-eyed seedlings come toddling
over board books and few phonemes.
Ready for showers of /s/ /s/ /s/ syllables
and shines of /s/ /s/ /s/ symbols.
The Wind wakes
and God makes it grow.
I /see/ them shoot up,
these young sproutlings.
Green limbs grabbing a green world,
chubby dirt fingers and leaf tongues.
The Wind waits
and God makes it grow.
These tiny babbling towers
/growing/ /going/.
They unfurl and twirl
pink spade tips on alveolar/lips,
They sweep/slide tinkling tones.
jingle jaws and stand
Tall on language land—
The Wind sings
bringing these sprigs of springsong
to her arms, spurring their tunes on
to new ground. And I hum on
knowing Wind breathes voice in us all'
and God makes it grow.