To Touch the Hem and Other Poems
by Kristine Amundrud
Two Peasant Women Digging in the Field with Snow, Vincent van Gogh, 1890, oil on canvas
TO TOUCH THE HEM
There is a bleeding heart where love once grew.
Look for her, late spring, in dappled light.
A lowly crown hidden beneath hard crust of if only.
Through generations, loyal buds endured,
though they were bound. Bear witness now
to courageous burst from cold, cursed ground.
It was never meant to be like this.
There is an inflorescence of blooms—
a weary archway seeking approval,
where foliage cries out:
Am I loveable?
Are my petals pleasing?
Is there a place for me here?
Each heart drips milky tears.
Each one sings a phrase of lament.
On a golden thread of hope, each heart mirrors my own–
the heart about to fall from stem,
the heart counting all things worthless,
and the heart that found intimacy with Him.
A Gardener sows restoration, planting
forgiveness when we have forgotten how.
There is a bleeding heart…
She is tender, but she was never weak.
She leans in to touch the hem of his trellis
and finds freedom anew.
Look for her in tomorrow’s garden—a kingdom
where hearts shall bleed no more.
TO HARROW AND HEAVE
It is no small thing—for faint hearted
to survey beloved land, stare death
square in the face, only to declare
childhood dreams dried up.
It is a daring endeavor to
to dismantle whatever weed
wiled its prickly lie into the
Eden of your heart.
There is a monumental bravery
in the backbreaking, unwavering
excavation of a stubborn root.
Bitterness can never bloom.
How brazen an act—
to oppose last season’s decay,
to collect cores in humility, clippings
and peelings that lay at your feet;
rind of all you held, dear—trusting,
in time, the soil will hold worth.
How does one begin
to clear the land, to dream the fruit,
to toil till ripe with ground so cruel?
Foolish to forever trip on stones,
yet never clear debris and shrapnel free—
all remnants of the past.
It is no small thing to believe in a better garden—
to harrow every hurt in, praying that
in a little while, the soil will be richer.
It is no small thing to build a monument—
to heave a stone upon your shoulder.
Tell me, what does it mean?
Place down the rock
you ached to throw.
God, in his faithfulness,
predestined: you must grow.
TO BE HEALED
It is time for planting—
to sink seeds of suffering into darkness,
anticipating the beauty they will become.
Mix soil well:
two parts prayer,
another part trust.
Sprinkle castings of forgiveness.
Water daily with weeping.
Warm with a mat of faith.
Harden off seedlings in windy surrender.
Transplant into future garden.
Await the miracle…
May His works rain down
in each garden lowly,
where mud moves as means
to revive a wilting story.
For we are all blind beggars
in need of anointing.
KRISTINE AMUNDRUD
Kristine Amundrud is a wife, mom, disciple, pianist, teacher, and friend. She’s embracing the life of a poet, while finding new joy and healing through story-work. She hopes you will find traces of God’s redemptive power in her words. Currently living in rural Central Alberta, she’s drawn to the majestic Canadian Rockies outside her front doorstep. Kristine finds immense joy in dreaming alongside her husband, Joseph, and their three treasures, Britta, Elsa, and Soren. Kristine would love to connect with you on Substack @kristineamundrud or Instagram @kamundrud.