I pull. I rip. I tug. I swear.
The weeds. The rocks. The dirt. The air.
I long to drive my hands in earth and feel the dirt, the worms, its smell and worth.
My garden is hard not unlike my heart.
It gives a little and takes back hard.
I hit a rock. It shatters my back.
I stop and ask myself “What is this about?”
I sink to my knees in sudden repose.
“What is this about, Sharon? What do you suppose?”
I give to others in their need.
Ignoring my self imagined greed.
And yet…I rake, and till, and plant.
And think about others who simply…can’t
I have today.
My blister’s will bear.
My garden is planted with love, sweat, and care.
I don’t know what it will bring.
In my garden, I will sing.