I Want To Grow A Garden

I want to grow a garden. I want to grow a garden and measure time by the shadows that stretch from the soles of my feet and bare toes. I want to pull wild rhubarb and chew its sour stalk until my mouth runs dry, with the summers sun on my neck and the mist of fresh rain moving through the humid air. I want to run my fingers through thick blades of blue grass as the man on the old wooden stage shreds his banjo with a southern slur. I want to watch the lights go out and stare at the silhouettes of family’s on the hill staring in to the July sky as the fireworks explode in a pyrotechnic song. I want to feel. I want to feel free again. I want the sounds of crickets and screen doors chirping and creaking as we tell stories on the porch with fire flies and rocking chairs softly swaying back and forth into the hours of sunsets. I want to grow a garden and pick wild raspberries and smash them into my cheeks until my belly is content and my hands are riddled with crimson sticky stains. I want to be free. I want to grow a garden.

Joshua Tool – 07/10/13

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