Yesterday, 07:21 AM
A Gardeners Fall
I spend the day
kneeling on grass.
Bruised knuckles bent back
skin tanned by dirt.
Something feels nice about it.
Going hours with a single thought,
spotting weeds that don't belong
around flowers I've come to know.
Cuts on my hand blend old scars
from a past-life, camouflaged
in history I wish I could celebrate.
Trauma feels like a stone to shovel.
Picking rocks with my hands
then digging away the soil.
Sweat on sunned skin
cements change from then.
Then I think
it's not me I lament.
Sometimes it's takes cuts from a rose.
Planting flowers after digging up stones.
Trees knocking off your favorite hat.
Laughing in yards working with old friends.
Be open to letting shit degrade in soil,
hoping for the best this fall.
I spend the day
kneeling on grass.
Bruised knuckles bent back
skin tanned by dirt.
Something feels nice about it.
Going hours with a single thought,
spotting weeds that don't belong
around flowers I've come to know.
Cuts on my hand blend old scars
from a past-life, camouflaged
in history I wish I could celebrate.
Trauma feels like a stone to shovel.
Picking rocks with my hands
then digging away the soil.
Sweat on sunned skin
cements change from then.
Then I think
it's not me I lament.
Sometimes it's takes cuts from a rose.
Planting flowers after digging up stones.
Trees knocking off your favorite hat.
Laughing in yards working with old friends.
Be open to letting shit degrade in soil,
hoping for the best this fall.
Only one thing is impossible for God: To find any sense in any copyright law on the planet.
--mark twain
Bunx
--mark twain
Bunx


) degrades in soil