How the Bloom Happens
I spent the entire month of April in the dirt, along the flower beds and the garden. I doubt I’ve ever washed my hands more, and yet tiny cracks in my fingers seem permanently darkened. I can’t wash it all away, and I don’t want to.
I’m engaged with this land. Every seed or root is in a give-and-take relationship with me. I plant and water and feed good compost, and the plant grows and gives me fruit or something beautiful to lay my eyes on. This kind of work feels like an original God intention for my life. This is part the poema he wrote about me, and now it’s coming to pass. I was always to be a flower lady and a woman with dirt in her skin.