Muses

My Passion Pit is a rumpled clay bed.

Burning.

Lust. Can’t wait to dig my hands deep into the earthy rawness of something.

Linking up with Finish the Sentence Friday: I am very passionate about . . .

My garden.

Can’t you tell?

Here it is April 26 and bare earth. A spot where no tiller dared to tread since early October.

And a much smaller pit. This patch is a quarter of the plot I’ve planted the last few years.

Why?

Because passion that burns bright and fierce — cools as quickly. It is a heck of a lot of work to keep a garden growing right. And you might as well forget about a purty, well-manicured garden in my case.

A few weeks ago, I removed the remains of the fall/winter garden: turnip greens, collards, broccoli, lettuce, cabbage and spinach . . . Na na na na. Na na na na. Hey hey goodbye.

I nuked the weeds.

And here it sits.

Till rotary blades break up the earth again.

I’ve lined up a tiller for Sunday.

Yes. It’s easy to line up tiller.

It’s easy to plan what beauties to place in your clay play pen.

It’s wrestling the heavy as a hippo tiller up and down out of the truck that’s killer.

The actually tilling itself is a blast. If you like riding a bucking bull for a hour.

Phooey.

I don’t sound very passionate about my garden.

No. I’m not passionate about getting every thing ready.

Going out there every day and looking for blossoms. New fruit peeking through. Watching a little yellow pearl of a spot grow into a squash that you can roast or throw into a casserole with toasted bread crumbs baking on top.

Picking weeds.

Well, maybe not picking weeds but feeling the sun’s heat on my shoulders while I’m out there, having its brightness elevate my mood. Smelling the dirt.

That’s passion.