Leaving the ditch

An intimate involement.
To a ditch?  Yes! To the
land.  To the wilds.  My family, nature, hard work, solitude,
silence, space.  You see?  It all fits together.  It includes me.  I am a part of her.

Room to breathe and a reason to breathe deep.  Dirty jeans and sweaty shirts and blistered
hands and shoulders and a back so sore in the morning it’s hard to slip socks on.

And I can’t imagine leaving her forever.

I know her like no one else.
Her curves, shallow spots, rocky places, weaknesses and strengths.  Where her wildest flowers bloom, and where
she sheds the silent needles of her dying trees.  Morning rains and evening shadows, how they
spread across and change her. Just a ditch.

No different than a farmer who tends the land, I have seen
her flow with plenty, break loose where she should not, given her an extra push
when I thought I had no more in me, and leaned on my shovel and done nothing
more than watch.

As with all wilds, this is a relationship one sided.  I will tend to her.  She will let me.  She will not stop me.  But she will never care.  Somehow, the nurturing is enough.  I need no more.  I am satisfied to work, to give, to tend to
her and ask for nothing in return.

For look how much she has given me.