The soil resists my first attempts to dig into it.
Running threads of grass form tangles that stop my gloved hands.
The smell of raw earth and all its promising glory
Fills my lungs bred dry by my old beach house sands.
I remove the hard limestone pieces that want to cut my skin.
They go into a white, plastic cup that was made for children's toys.
The stones rattle when I pick them up to find more to throw in.
Simple actions produce some strangely primitive joys.
As I make rectangles within rectangles to set up the new home
For the little tomato plants, green peppers and beets.
I think about the new movement that I have joined.
Without trying, I am in the group of revolutionaries.
Abandoning the mass produced food, we attempt to coax the plants
And fight the insects, the elements and the land.
We just want to taste a fresh tomato that came from our sweat
And the land's cooperation. This is the seed planted by my hand.
The rain, Sun and Moon all romance the soil beneath my toes.
Meanwhile, I am like a waitress in a fancy place.
Making sure they have water, good food and time to themselves.
The seeds are shy ones that turn into the Sun's face.
The soil gets on my toes and beneath my fingernails.
It is all right.