Standing in a  pie wedge, watering can in hand,

Toes buried deep into the soil.  I feel the heat of the world,

The burning incandescence of the sun and all of the life that it sends

Through particles and atoms and spectrums to the Earth

So that the Earth in which I stand hums with life.

A white moth alights close to me, tastes the soil, hovers over the plants I have just watered.

It is not quite eight in the morning and no one is awake except for me

And this tiny wisp of life.  White tissue paper vivaciously

Beats the air, quickly ascends into its own shallow atmosphere

Before dropping back into my garden.

I am no Eve, no Adam, no creator.  I am more like Cain, finding my fulfillment

In the planes of the soil, in the thriving life that exists both above and beneath

The rich layers of brown-black soil on which spiders dance while carrying their young,

A microscopic nursery on eight legs.

This is peace.  This is where I find my sanctuary, my hands six inches deep within the

Hot earth, all of the lines on my palms picked out in sharp relief

Against the whiteness of my skin.  Lift my hands from the soil,

Hold the worm in my hand, feel its squealing motion as it strives

To find the loose world from which it has been pulled, an unwelcome birth.

Gently, I return this little bit of life to my garden.

Gently I pour water on all my infant plants, dream of the harvest

That is promised in very golden flower nestled under thorny leaves or between

Branches that smell a little like blood.