Where I come from there are no
There is the ground and the sky
our feet and our hands.
Light green, yellow green, sunlight-through-leaf green, black earth under dappled shadows.
Sun streaming hot onto the moist black earth upturned by dirty hands lined and smudged brown. Soft crunch crunch crunch of tool into soil. Crinkle of black plastic nursery plant being pulled out, sprinkling clumps of earth and rock onto the ground. Pat pat gently into the soil, pull up the earth like a blanket, resting quietly under the sun, drinking in the freshness of the garden, growing stretching pulling up up up into the sky, clambering over one another – the slowest race in the world – to find the brightest patch under the blue gingham sky. Continue reading