Leans down over the dirt
Hands dig, break, crumble
Clumps of clay into fine earth.
Mixes, kneads, blends
Compost and loamy soil through clay
With strong, sure hands.
Biceps, triceps loose flexing, working.
Warm sun like an embrace
Upon his back, assures, lulls, eases.
Sweat trickles down his back,
Rivlets down his cheek.
He lifts his hand to wipe it away
Leaving behind a smudge.
Scent of damp earth rises
Sharp, sour-sweet, pungent, vital.
Soft, gentle breeze breathes, refreshes.
Relishes the feel of earth in his hands
Pulse of life in this
Eternal present-future moment.
Of spring, Love, Life
As Jesus works the garden of my heart
Changing poor soil into good
Making me ready for the seeds
Of his Word.
You may contact me at Anneofwrightnaven@yahoo.com
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