In the woods, in the mystery of its littleness

still a seed becomes a tree.


In the dark dank soil it swells and burst

forth on the way to its destiny.


In the fierce fear of being hurt

still love is birthed.


In the incubator of our puny hearts it

grows slowly into vitality.


In the daily round of doubts where reason rules

still faith buds.


In the quest we discover

a loyal and fierce and untamed deity.


In the wounded souls that have known betrayal

still forgiveness can come.


In the acid reflux of wrath peace soothes our spirit

healing comes not from revenge but mercy.


Then we discover the power of a mustard seed.


Diantha Zschoche