Dirty Hands

Fingers and palms in the earth.  Inhaling the life that grows beneath. The textures and the color of what germinates  becomes imprinted on our skin, a reminder of the gift of life.

What is soon to blossom goads our minds.  We must wait for the blossom yet our desire is ever present.  How do we find calm?   How do we subdue our patience knowing that what blossom will be worth the wait?

Music mood:  Eric Clapton “layla”

Neurally yours,

rose garden xo


I'm a writer and a lover not a fighter, except if I really want something.

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