My dad tended a garden
that offered the best corn on the cob
ever – 
knee-high by the 4th of July,
he always used to say – 
but not until August 
could we gather at the picnic table under the apple tree
to enjoy that salty and buttery
corn on the cob for dinner.
He was a good preacher, 
too,
holding the Sunday morning congregation
in the palm of his hand – 
just like the seeds of corn
that he pushed down into the dirt
with a forceful thumb.

I wonder,
must there always be
a season of darkness
before we are able 
to grow into 
the warmth of the 
Son?