Fruitless

Trying to make sense of it was fruitless, 

but the grapes, heavy and purple, smelled fresh that fall.

The flowers were beautiful, but they didn't have a smell.

In the garden, he shook his head, dismissing his efforts. 

They were futile and pointless. 

He said, "I'm overwhelmed with sorrow."

It could all go to the worms, writhing on the compost heap out back.

We try to stay busy, to distract ourselves, as if we can outrun the fear.

We don't want to listen to the whisper we'd have to acknowledge if we stopped.

Stay here. Keep watch with me.

It's been a crushing journey.

We wanted to make all creation thrive and flourish. 

We wanted to be on fire.

It's expensive and hard to find an authentic version.