The rain taps across my hat’s felted brim, caresses my steaming back with its cool touch. The spring day is cold, but my work keeps me warm.
The bite of woodsmoke reaches me. I lift my nose and scent the air. My breath comes out a mist.
I grimace as digits plunge farther down into the black loam. The earth envelopes my hand, its serenity infuses me, my worries leach away.
I am the root, now. I am the plant. I am the garden.