It’s a rare and sunny December Saturday;
The fog has thawed off the hills,
The birds trill to my rhythmic acts of labour.
You stroll past, to-go cup in hand,
Slowing to a halt as I shovel. I shovel, I shovel,
I shovel: dismantling my compulsion to keep peace with white lies.
I shovel: abandoning unconditional love in unkind situations.
I shovel: casting aside my mother’s passive aggression.
I shovel: unearthing fears of dying alone.
Somewhere between squashing perfectionism
(That belittles every success), and
Dislodging complacency with life’s adventures,
You join me, part in kindness and curiosity,
Tracking untamed mounds of earth
Onto my foundation for a sanctuary in solitude.
Do we start over to even out the top soil?
Or resign to build this tower of broken bells
That still sing through their cracks?