My garden. My soul.

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.


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