5 hours ago
A Gardeners Fall
I spend the day
kneeling on grass.
Bruised knuckles make her wonder
why I'm covered in dirt.
Something feels nice about it.
Going hours with a single thought,
spotting weeds that don't belong
around flowers raised by thorns.
Cuts on my hand hide old scars
from memories camouflaged
in a past I wish I could celebrate.
Trauma feels like a stone to shovel.
Picking rocks with my hands
then digging away the soil.
Sweat on sunned skin
with knees on cement.
Then I think
it's not me I lament.
Sometimes it's takes pruning a rose.
Planting new flowers after digging up stones.
Trees knocking off your favorite hat.
Laughing with an old friend.
Be open to letting pain degrade in soil,
hoping for the best next season.
I spend the day
kneeling on grass.
Bruised knuckles make her wonder
why I'm covered in dirt.
Something feels nice about it.
Going hours with a single thought,
spotting weeds that don't belong
around flowers raised by thorns.
Cuts on my hand hide old scars
from memories camouflaged
in a past I wish I could celebrate.
Trauma feels like a stone to shovel.
Picking rocks with my hands
then digging away the soil.
Sweat on sunned skin
with knees on cement.
Then I think
it's not me I lament.
Sometimes it's takes pruning a rose.
Planting new flowers after digging up stones.
Trees knocking off your favorite hat.
Laughing with an old friend.
Be open to letting pain degrade in soil,
hoping for the best next season.
Only one thing is impossible for God: To find any sense in any copyright law on the planet.
--mark twain
Bunx
--mark twain
Bunx

