A touch of time —
feels like marigold marmalade,
like spending slow summers together.
Syrup-dripping tears sting as they stick
to your face, attracting bees; and those
jarring truths of a dream unfulfilled.
It stays sealed in glass—sweetness
postponed, a closed jar never tasted.

You plant a flower of hope in the smallest
of gardens, and prove that even a drop
of nectar can fertilize your faith.
You want to rest in blessings, but
blessings move — so must you.

You pray for daily bread, but life
kneads your hands into making it.
You earn your piece, then spread it
like marigold marmalade on warm bread.

Because life isn’t so sweet; dreams only
taste a little once you finally get a bite.
And Lord, could we be forgiven for
craving the fruit of another’s labour?
As we mistake living for pleasing —
and forget to live for our destined reason.