Hands

Typing blog posts, drinking Richland rum, I noticed my hands. I like them today. They are dirty and old. If you showed me these thirty years ago I would not have guessed they were mine. Becoming leathery and deeply creased.

I can’t say I was pleased when I started noticing the blotches on my hands and arms a couple years ago. It is what it is. You take the time to find the beauty because there will always be opportunity to find fault.

That the hands are dirty makes me happy. They remind me that the tractor I bought yesterday arrived today. And the beautiful stripe of land I turned from 7 foot tall dead dog fennel skeletons to dark, even soil that I knelt in to transplant tiny little asparagus plants, lettuce, beets…