bearing fruit

This began in writer's group as my response to the prompt for the evening...I think it's done, but I'm not sure...

Crusty, caked hands,
dirt under the fingernails—
“Man, I hate that”
I think to myself—
wondering how they’ll ever come clean.
Chastising myself for
forgetting my gloves, I plunge once
again into the soil—
dirty work, this is.
Turning and overturning,
plowing and tilling,
working the soil until it yields to
my hands—
dirty work, indeed.

Beside me,
packaged in tightly sealed packets,
lay the promises
of tomorrow,
awaiting life to be awakened
within each
tiny capsule of
hope.
I pour them out—
bushel baskets full of bounty
reduced in the palm of my hand—
and with great care
I resolutely
release them to
the earth.
Pressing and patting,
poking and prodding
I place each possibility
in its own
grave—
and I bury it
completely.
My task complete,
I contemplate
the fate
of each
miniscule
life-giving
life-awaiting
vessel.
Which of them
presses through the cold,
deep soil toward the sun
and which of them rots in
the damp
darkness
is no longer in my hands.
I have sown
my seed.
I have watered.
I have fertilized.
I have weeded and
tilled and
generally futzed
over it to no
end,
but I cannot make it grow.

Bushel baskets of potential
all within the hands of
the one
who causes the sun to shine
and the rain to fall
and the seed to crack open wide
and embrace life.

I wait
to see what
bears fruit.