A Quiet Place

I kneel, the dampness of the verdant grass seeping through my pants. The sun warms the back of my arms, leeching deep through the cotton of my shirt and into my skin. I can feel it soak to my muscles, my bones, my heart.

A pair of bright gloves sit nearby. My bare hands dig deep as the loose soil works its way under my fingernails, coating my skin with a thick layer of earth. I push and prod, bringing order to chaos. The wind teases and pulls strands of hair across my cheeks, sticking to my lips. I brush at it with the back of my hand, leaving streaks of mud.

I sit up and stretch my back, the muscles tight and aching. I look up into the sky - sometimes blue, sometimes gray, sometimes dotted with white clouds. I peer around at what I've done, what I will do. Neatly lined beds of stone and wood with patches of green and brown mix with crimsons, purples, whites, and yellows. Their jumble laughs at my attempts at precision. Like mischievous children, they're where they shouldn't be, but I can't help but smile.

I bend back to my work as a pail of seed packets rustle in the breeze. Birds chirp. Cars pass. Children laugh. Water drips. And still...

It's silent.


This is in response to the Write on Edge prompt: write about a place that makes you feel peaceful. It's pretty obvious I need to get crackin' on my garden.

Like soon.