green

Thunder rolls across the dark July summer afternoon sky, as hands are immersed in the heart of an avocado. The pulp of the first fruit overripe, it finds its way under fingernails; the firmer flesh of the second permits easy release from its black protective skin.

Scallions snipped, the sting in my eyes makes the rain come.

Salt, pepper, half a lemon's juice and some water. The fork blends the mole into a tasty texture and the storm passes.

Thunder rumbling from a distance, the garden calls. Smell the rain, the fresh, the green.

Wash hands in wet grass and I thus give back to Earth a bit of that selfishly taken for food. Then plunge hands back into the green, yet to reap more.

I revel in the earthy scent of humid freshness following a cleansing rain.

Removal of green from black now, the weeds snap unsatisfyingly from the roots. Those will return.

Sometimes with almost audible sighs, Earth releases her hold on roots; the entire plant resigns leaving mulch and soil behind with a shake.

The trained hand of human intruder swiftly retakes control of what is not hers to possess.