Gardening again.
This time I’m pulling out weeds and raking mulch into their place in a shaded alley at the back of the garden. The sun’s warming my head and shoulders but ignoring the rest of my body, welcome in the midday heat. I can hear birds tweeting sporadically, quiet for minutes after each shovel into the gravel tears through their chorus. I can smell the compost through its shut lid, everywhere I look another weed seems to poke its head through the dry woody soil. My mouth still tastes metallic from sucking at the blister that’s formed pre-popped between my thumb and fingers. I sing inside my head and am aware of my own happiness.
