Poem by Lew Forester

I trust this sunrise, how color
                                           floods the sky 
like a promise 
              I refuse to give up on.
 
Earth yields to shovel and, yes, 
                                           what I plant 
will grow, bear fruit, then wilt 
              on hot August afternoons 
while cumulus build in the west
like mansions for the spirit.

My body was fertile ground
                                           for cancer
until chemo and prayers
weeded it out. 
Now I sort through packets of seeds, 
like personal items I once 
                                           discarded,
to save others from that grief.

How explicit this sunrise,
                                           how faithful.
Yes, there are cracks in the sky. 
Exits abound and many 
                             pass through. 
I gather the light they leave.