Seven of Coins

Faith is an odd sort of attention. A fervent looking at something you can’t see. Or looking away, from that which must unfold unseen. What does the tender of the vine see, as one by one the leaves unfurl? What does he feel, knowing any cold wind could have them wither and curl? His body bent as a branch heavy with fruit. His hands on his hoe as though it were a stalk. If he turned his attention for a moment to himself, he would come to know the shape of what’s to come by the changes taking shape in him.