Three poems; It has been said and now is found that no two harvests are ever the same
Each shall inherit the branch of his planting. Each shall feed upon his own pasture. Here the mystery and miracle of a provision that issues -- inexhaustibly -- from a single source and yet, with the most exquisite precision, is matched to whatever at the outset each has sown. O none can lay claim to another's vineyard faithfully tended through storm and drought. None come as plunderer to what is yielded as another's grove, brimming with fruit. Here the mystery. The miracle. The wonder. Now, in this parabled passage found . . . .