Bio Note: Wearing nitrile gloves in public has become commonplace, and I wear them even when I go to the post office. But home planting, weeding, spading, my fingers are free to pinch, prod, shape, mound, and toss dirt without a shield. For a time, I have no social distance, I am immersed.
A No Rain Weekend
and I got dirty knees-dirt-dirty fingers-in-dirt-dirty dandelion-root-up-dirty alyssum-verbena-snapdragon-dirty weed-whack-dirty crabgrass-work-jerk-dirty sock-forget-me-not-stuck-tight-dirty dirty-good-feeling-dirty-dirty
I like it when it rains and stops, and rains again, and stops, and rains. The entire month of April has been intermittent, as the weather pols say, not like a windshield wiper that has a built-in delay, programmed for spring but sensing it’s summer, the pulse trying to wipe away one season to get to another but failing. Clouds are pretty much perpetual, and the gloom affects everyone, as if death of a loved one and grief rules with hunched shoulders and capsized umbrellas-- or people like me hatless and hands free wanting wet shoes, smiling from moonwalking slick pavement.
Father’s Day Gift
I find my kid’s aluminum bats tucked in the corner with tools in the sagging shed next to my wooden bat with a screw in the handle to tighten down a split kept in case an intruder broke into the house one night, relegated to outside storage by the fact I sleep so deeply I don’t hear my wife come to bed. I swing all three at once, happy, warming up, thinking of the loft and arc of a dirty scuffed ball against a perfect blue sky splitting what might have happened from what actually did, the wonder of baseball, replaying what-ifs in your head, a chance at luck and perfection, perhaps the milled shapes cupped in the chafed palms and held tight by the worn fingers meant to give a handle to keep the thief of age away.
©2020 Jeff Burt
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