Strain backwards, pull the weed free of the dirt. Straighten and wipe the sweat away, let it fall like rain on the earth that stretches far and farther to the forest. I smile, because no matter how strong those weeds are rooted in, they aren't half as strong as me. I'm in deep, here, sunk in this soil like the sugar maples we tap, and here my roots stay.
This land calls to me, pulls me in and wraps me close enough to hear the thrumming heartbeat. I never thought that the evening could be spicy, racy, feisty, but it is. No matter where I go, I'll always remember this smell and feel and slant of evening light.
Sometimes I think the dirt in these calluses, tracing my palm, has steeped into my blood. The next weed I pull has thorns, and I laugh. My land has a bite and I love it. If my blood has the same composition as the riverwater below, it's no problem to shed it here and loose it into the soil again.
It seems only a fair exchange, to me.
2 comments:
I like this. Even though I'm no 'country boy' by heart, I do like the outdoors. I'm more of a 'forest/river' type person than I am a 'farm' type person though hahaha. Still, I liked this. It just....made sense to me.
I really wish I could make things grow. I can get just about any animal to flourish, but plants seem to die upon seeing me.
I hope to grow up like my mother, whose plants either die within a week or grow into jungle vines.
I'm glad you're better with plants than I am.
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