I come in from shoveling, hoeing, raking, digging--gardening! My hands are like stumps and I find it hard to even grasp the facet handle to scrub up. I find the dirt has made its way into every crack, callous, cuticle. Dust to dust. As I wash it away, I mourn the loss of this crusty exterior that has been me for the afternoon. I have been a warrior against the weeds. I have been the cultivator, the creator. As I come clean, absolved of my imaginings, I am again what I am, just a bag of water, just another guy.
Morning comes and creaks, my every bone and joint arguing in favor of stasis, but I must move. I must go about becoming. I must make myself by day by words, but when evening comes again, when I pick up my shovel, I will be one with the earth and One to reckon with, at least for a while.
Meanwhile, I relish the dirt remaining beneath my nails. As I sit in this cultured environ, void of all remnant of our earthy life, tickling a keyboard to tease from it some semblance of thought, I am happy to note that dirt, humble and dark, hiding under my talons.
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