Song of Tending Land

Yesterday I woke up early, slipped on my sandals and stepped out into the wet grass behind my house. The air was frosty. Flecks of light tripped over the mountains and through the oaks then hovered over my patch of dirt without touching it. An ancient shovel, a tool that had floated through every garage adjacent to every family home we have occupied, sat next to the plot. Stately, it stood as a symbol of simple strength having dug up a good section of lawn for the purpose of planting vegetables. The bit of earth represented hours ticked away and green leaves of paper traded for delicate leaves of flora.

Transfixed by the garden, my feet did not move but my mind began to dance. I stared at the soil, considering the potential for life and food before me.

The satisfaction of working in the ground is written in my bones. I imagine my ancestors trying to coax verdure out of dust and my chest is filled with respect for those persons that turned clay into loam and seeds into sustenance. If I were wearing a hat I would remove it and press it to my chest. Hand over my heart, listening to the gentle song of those tending the primitive land.