To feel the warm earth in my fingers, to smell it. To push the muscles past the point of pain in preparation of a garden. To gauge the blossoms on the branches and trim the laggers. To sit with paper and a pencil drawing out the lines of rows and printing names of vegetables and herbs and yes, the dahlias and other pick-for-huge-bouquet flowers to cheer the rooms.
The heart is tugged in one direction, the mind in just the opposite other. The coolness feels like fall.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology