By Elizabeth Orton Jones 1945
The warm sun is shining in our garden.
That’s where I planted seeds not long ago.
Such little wrinkled things they were
As I held them in my hand!
Now they have grown into vegetables,
Many shapes, many colors, many tastes.
How could each seed grow into the right vegetable
And nothing else-
The red radish, the white onion, the yellow carrot,
All down there together
In the same black earth?
How could they know just how to be themselves?
God must have whispered to them in the ground
And told each one the secret of itself.