GARFIELD
3.1.21
Some time ago I compared callouses to the biceps of passion, and I’d like to revisit that if I may.
My palms have been aerating clay for days now. They’ve created breathing passageways for soil, roots, and skin. Yes, skin. I’ve worked my hands to raw out the blood.
My palms are tainted salmon now, I can’t open the fridge without them spitting beet and cherry on the handle. To mitigate the damage (and pain), I’ve tucked them in lotion oiled latex gloves throughout my day to day.
When It’s finally time to plow the soil, I protect the latex gloves with garden gloves.
That keeps my hands happy, they love the plow, the shovel, the grit. Though the do miss my cat.
I’m sure there’s poetry in there somewhere.