From the dirt

I raked 10 brown yard bags full of old mulch, leaves I'd banked around trees in the fall, crusted bed toppings that hadn't been tended to in years (?). It felt renewing to uncover the ground and see where things that had been left behind had turned the ground deep and rich, dark and cool. I plunked down some new bulbs and a path and some ridiculous cubic footage of fresh mulch, and visioned a little sitting area, if not for me for the birds. We live on a corner that's busy, though I prefer bustling, it seems to have better resale value though I know it's just semantics. And I love how the kids walk by from school and the neighbors honk and stop to tell me that I'm making them look bad with all I'm doing out there. 

It was cold, but after wielding my rake and the clippers and wearing the gardening gloves, I wiped the sweat away, leaving dark brown streaks across my forehead, remember that you are dirt, and to dirt you shall return. There was life among the decay that had happened over the winter, new leaves on things I thought had died, fresh shoots of things I wish had not survived, tendrils peeking through the ground looking bold and tender. I stood and visioned all sorts of foliage, creating the beds into a mishmash of color and bloom, of green, of life, ridding the corners of their barren brown. A frost warning prevented me from rushing out to stimulate the economy with my garden dreams, but last night a woman said to me, come to my yard, wander about to see what I have, there are lots of shoots, bleeding hearts and cup-plants, and .... and my vision took root again, and I want my hands to retain a speck or three of black beneath the nail, a reminder of the dirt from which I come.