I’m watching through the running glass window, an old one from 1926.
I see my father, his figure slightly distorted in the droops and folds,
taking the pickaxe rhythmically up and over his head,
then bringing it down in an arc, slamming it,
the point piercing hard red-brown clay, breaking it all up
to create another of our many new planting beds.
This is his back-breaking work in the garden he loves, another facet of his grand plan.
It’s his long dream of heaven on earth coming true by small steps.
First he and my Uncle Brownie built the rock-wall terraces, and now
it is my father’s greatest pleasure to prepare and plant them out.
When he finally stops, I place that moment in memory,
another snapshot to take out and examine from time to time.
It’s part of my mental album of scenes that bring the meaning of his life to mine.
He himself I think I never knew to be searching for the meaning of his own.
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Aloha #WriterFriday, I hope your week ended well. Today’s #WritingPrompt is
gardening
Use to to inspire a piece of writing, and then please post it somewhere I can read it. I would love to see what you wrote.
