My neck is red. My hands are dry and chapped. My palms are sliced and scratched. My fingernails are filled with earth. My fingertips are raw and not yet calloused. My nostrils are dusty. My back aches and my knees buckle every time I climb the stairs. Three weekends of solitary construction and creation. Just me and the dirt and the black spaghetti tube irrigation and the post driver and the chicken wire. I am the architect of the canals of Tenochitlan. I am a slave building the aqueducts of Carthage. I am an eight year old boy losing an afternoon in his Lincoln Logs.
Just me and the seedlings that I nurtured myself. Nine varietals of heirloom tomatoes whose identities got jumbled in transport. Pumpkins from Provence. Eggplant from Japan. Tomatillos from Oaxaca. Squash from Martinique. Kale from Tuscany. Beans from Calabria. Basil from Genoa. Sweet, hot, red, green, orange, and chocolate peppers. I am the designer of an edible Versailles. I am the son of the Earth Goddess. I am a United Farm Worker. I am a Woody Guthrie song. I am content.
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