naked in my garden

I’m sweating buckets, pulling weeds and digging plants. Its early in the season and I am still visualizing dense, colour splashed borders and weed free pathways lit by torches and a fire in the rock pit and stars overhead and someone with me drinking wine while the heady scents wafting in the breeze overtake us and passion swallows us. That is what I sweat for. Reality is I reach down and yank a handful of debris to toss in the wheelbarrow and a snake, just as startled as I, jerks in my hand and I fling him, glove and all as far as I can and he lands slithering and for the rest of the summer I stomp loudly through my garden, and sing like a crazy lady. Day after day goes by, and I work hard, and more and more I am drawn to my dream and I sweat dreaming and thinking this is the year. I drink a lot of wine. I order topsoil and mulch and sweat and swear and dirt gets in my pores and I drink more wine and wear less clothes. I think to hell with skin cancer I need to feel the sun, and then if I’m going to get skin cancer I might as well smoke, so I buy a pack and with the wine it tastes good, and then one night in the hot tub my dream disappears in the stars and I know that this summer it is not going to happen, and I cry to the stars, then I sing I’m alive, lonely is living, and I twirl on the grass and run naked in my garden, and dance myself to sleep.