Busy hands

There's a rhythm to spading the spring earth.
A sensuality to dibbling seed holes.
The way the sandy clay parts around the invading finger,
cool, damp and yielding.
As if making love to Gaia as we set out the corn and tomatoes, eggplant and watermelon.
Stroking furrows in her to impregnate her with carrots and lettuce.

Sun warmth, sweat, fingers coated in loam.
And Oldest son beside me, the one whose chart says he's a natural-born pagan, planting corn, covering it gently, as I move on to plunge my fingers in again.


IOW, I got my garden in today. My hands hurt, my back hurts, and I'm sunburnt, yet insufferably pleased with myself.

Also washed dishes and am about to go clean the front room.


I was breaking turf clods and had an idea for a story, or at least an image to work into a story.

Because Kipling is by default period

Been listening to a lot of Leslie Fish, and this seemed so utterly appropriate.

( Birds of Prey March )

"There will be war, war enough to glut a
generation and keep the ravens fed for decades." --Benefits of a Classical Education.