I'm tired. I'm so tired, I'm numb. Nothing sounds interesting. Everything's a chore.
But I'm planting the garden anyway. The seeds rustle dryly out of their envelopes and disappear into the soil, invisible in their dirt camoflage (how do the birds find them?). It looks pretty pitiful, really. Nothing but rock-hard pellets and broken earth. An apt reflection of the gardener: prostrate, broken, leafless.
But I'm planting the garden anyway. Under the furrowed dust, I am longing for a taste of those vivid tomatoes that only come out of one's own backyard. I believe there will be a salad that is as much a feast for the eye as for the palate - violets, nasturtiums and pale pansies crowded between the spinach and cranberries. The pungent basil will be worth its weight in gold, and the bees will use it to flavor our honey with a minty perfume. I am counting on roasting chilis this fall, and being able to put up quarts and quarts of salsa, paprikas sauce and green chili.
I am counting on renewal. On resurrection.
