A VOICE OF ONE CALLING
The beet is a strange prophet. Speaking only
in whisper, its dirt-tipped tongue ancient
as air. Hold it in your hand, gnarled taproot
yearning for home, and you’ll understand
what I mean. Listen, the small song it sings
is for you, like the answer
to every question ever asked:
You’re more than the mud
you were formed from.
More than body, blood, and bone.
Believe me, I was there
when He made you, His love
like rain, like sun.