Fruitfulness in the time of pandemics

Land your hand on my shoulder, Holy Dove. Hold me
down to the ground, a paperweight rock on my fluttering heart—
frantic feather between your fingers inscribing 
indescribable things. 
 
Please, keep me from flying away.
 
Speak your words over me, ‘til they drip like
oil-like-lead down into my shoes.
Keep me planted on the earth. 
Sink deep roots through my twitchy feet. Feed me
from the bottom up—up from earth’s core,
deeply dug glory, subsisting in subpar, sublevel
underground stories of futility:
the fickle smear of bone and fleshy vanity,
digested, petty dreams.
 
Break up, tear down,
Humble, till, and turn my ambition and excesses into
life-giving nutrition.
Compose me new in compost piles. 
Re-make me true.
 
May the holy seed rise up
in me, a growing in obscurity—warmed
by a single naked beam of your kenotic light. 
 
Bow my neck and bend my boughs
in ignominious productivity.
Burden me with real success, branches filled by, 
stooped, by bearing Spirit’s fruit.