By: Joy Ortiz
Rubbed raw by raking,
My hands bled.
Work had worn
Tender skin,
Raising issues
Angry and red
After the bubble burst.
Should I cover and cradle
Wounded hands,
Nursing them,
Suspended in action,
Until broken skin
Was smooth once more?
Perhaps,
Yet layers of leaves lay
Smothering hope
And baby grass blades
As the digits on my clock
Moved on with minutes lost.
Back to the mud and mulch
I trekked,
Rake in hand,
Redeeming the lawn
Until wounds ran red.
With sweat on my palms,
Dirt under my nails,
I rested,
Surveying spring shoots
As old leaves crumbled,
Swirled into smoke.
Day two called me.
"Come out!"
Spring sunshine and
April air asked,
"If not today, when?"
I shouldered my shovel
And dug into
A mulch mountain.
Though my blisters bled
I barely noticed.
Spring in my steps
Carried me with a wheelbarrow
To every flowerbed,
Burying winter's waste
In wood chips.
Perennial plants
Peeked from beneath
Last year's leaves.
The world was waking.
Who would waste
Such a perfect day?
When I finally washed
Work-worn hands,
I saw the skin
Where blisters had bled
Hardened and healing.
Thicker and tougher,
A callous grew.
Layer by layer,
Stronger and stronger
Those vulnerable thumbs
Grew worthy of work.
With my blister's gift
I raised my shovel
For another load.
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