in the garden
Alice Walker said, “In search of my mother’s garden, I found my own,” and this is what I be.
My call to {BE}.
Something out there waits for me, waits for me to remember.
It waits for me in the soil, in the wet blades of grass that tickle my toes and sends chills up my calves. But I do not turn back for shoes.
Something primal draws me on.
Recovering stories in my bones awakened by the breeze, the wind upon my back. My own. Familiar we are, fertile in the touch. Be that grass, breeze or bird song.
Birds. Lost souls. Tweet, tweeting chirping cheep. A chorus of shrills and trills and tweeps, practicing voice and nests and life. Pigeon strutting along the concrete slabs, head bobbing to an internal beat. Wing-beats. Clap, clap, slap slapping air.
Clouds pinned into the blue sky, unhitch to cruise over the sun, providing shade. Soon come, soon gone and then sun.
Warmth, moistures my breastplate. Dark skin absorbing the heat and glow back an energy of blood.
The call to remember reconnect reclaim that belonging to Mother Earth. I’m listening. Rooting in with earthen kin. Searching. Remembering. Belonging.