garden

Garden fresh produce grows voluptuously in the sun. Their rounded edges beam and shine. Breezes blow and they lightly bounce in the wind, firmly married to their mother stems. The field smells fresh and earthy; some chlorophyll haven. The sun is hot, warms my skin, humidity leaves a residual sheen of sweat up my iron eyebrow. Careful to dab it so I do not rest, rust, I shuffle my heavy feet and shovel, dragging behind me now to the crow, row of crops. Moving like I am losing a battle with gravity underwater hungover. Pressurization think tank. Columbine aftershock. Dainty doilies adorn grandma’s farm house. It is a I, a robot mutant, tending these fields of crops and grain. Legumes for miles. Lucy has a shovel, but it is on the ground in front of her. I watch her pick ripe, plump tomatoes and put them into her basket, then walk them to the pickup truck. And back and forth she goes. Abraham eyes me sideways as he cuts peapods and puts them into a sack. When full it must weigh over 40 pounds. A crow cries out. It sounds like a warning. I run my thumb over the handle of the shovel where it has started to splinter. I kick the metal spade lightly with my feet to shake off the dirt. The sound is dull and does not reverberate. It is like I am not really here, but inside a sterile chrome building with eyes closed asleep, and this form is my avatar. This is the game. This is the reality. This is the illusion. This is the dream. Siamese setback, Willow works up a storm gathering corn still on the husk. I remember there is a general store 20 miles from here. And there is a peppercorn grinder than you can wind by hand. Church bells, some sort of alarm rings in my mind bringing me back. I remember that my time’s elapsed. And I must move on to the next adventure. The next vision. I feel the familiar tingling in my hands and feet, and then it’s almost like my stomach’s missing before I evaporate and go back to the loading screen of this rocky ocean. Waiting, while a smiling turnip tells me the percentage. The sounds are 8-bit and comforting.

Author: Roe

29. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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