I still walk the garden every morning, before breakfast, coffee, or even chocolate. I visit each plot, notice what has grown overnight. A few peas ready for picking, more pastel green tomatoes fattening on the vines, how the zucchini plants are as tall as my ribs and offering tender fruit.
I admire the remaining five out of ten planted sunflowers, entirely green and slender yet, lifting themselves toward the sky, and look for darkening gems on the blackberry vine. I listen to crows carry on overhead, and feel the breeze against my skin. Once we've met again as who we are in this new day - the garden and I - I'm ready to engage with others.
I admire the remaining five out of ten planted sunflowers, entirely green and slender yet, lifting themselves toward the sky, and look for darkening gems on the blackberry vine. I listen to crows carry on overhead, and feel the breeze against my skin. Once we've met again as who we are in this new day - the garden and I - I'm ready to engage with others.