We were full on with motivation and dirty earthen life. But it rained - it is the sky coming low to our puny hills. It rained for the month of February - mercifully a leap year. We were maybe foolhardy to plant in January, maybe deluded by our own vigour at the vigour of our seed.
You can tell, looking out the steamed bathroom window as I do every day, the vibrant green of each supple flora blurring into a singular verdure, as if the window had been enveloped in moss.
Everything grew that we did not touch. Our straight rows are bare; our hard worked beds beset.
There is an empty hole where there should be a fruiting tree. There is mud where paths were planned. Twenty laying hens and rich warm eggs with golden yolks are displaced by the reality of garden detrious - scattered bricks, warped lumber, rust. Things undone. We levelled ground and planted a spa. It is filled with rainwater and uncovered, a wrinkled blue tarp peeling off it like a drying membrane in the sun. Benches, solid things upturned. Did the rain accomplish that?
We were drowned that month. And waterlogged we lie about, lower that the sour grass waving in our gentle breezes like kelp beds in the currents.
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