seasons

In the winter, my skin is pale and soft
My body is comfortable and resting
My time is spent indoors eating and planning and cultivating family
The world is resting, retreating, renewing, empty with the readiness for spring

In the summer, my skin is rough, ever darker, and stings from Sun and scratches of unknown origin
My body is alive with each muscle telling me of its presence
Dirt is permanently pressed and etched and embossed into my fingernails and calluses
Time is an urgent race to plant and harvest and preserve
The world bursts forth into three dimensions growing and changing before my very eyes
The energy is palpable, the garden challenges me to keep up with its vigor. Knowing full well that I never will