I dig and toil and pull and plant,
not knowing who I am.
Feisty vines tangled,
brushing my shins.
I yank and snap and slash and rip and loosen,
not knowing how nice to be.
Seeking something a garden brings, but takes its sweet time bringing it to me.
Sweat and soil and seed and bleeding hearts all lined up like soldiers in the sun.
My back nearly breaking, bones and body aching, not stopping ‘til it’s done.
Head down work.
Gritty muscle work.
Scratches and spraying work.
Dusty smudges and sneezes work.
Boots and gloves and dirty knees.
Slithering snakes and noisy bees.
Time and space, a red worn face.
A face as red as a ripe summer tomato.
They crawl before they walk, before they fly away.
Seedlings to trees.
Babies then children then oh look now they’re gone.
Someone is singing,
no it’s just the wind.
A leaf flutters falling,
no it’s a just butterfly.
I hear my neighbor’s talking goats,
they do not stop.
I linger. I watch. I wait.
Alone, I am, but not lonely.
The mail is finally here, I walk to retrieve it, not knowing who I am.
At night, I sip something strong and stare at the moon.
In the tub, I scrub and soak and let my eyes roll back.
In bed, I push away my quilt, I’m a heap, heat creeping, seeping out my head.
I meet a vivid dream though, dappled thoughts I left unsaid.
And suddenly I know without a doubt, exactly who I am.
I am my father’s daughter.