Cultivated Heart

Cultivated Heart

I run to the white picket fence. I must see her among the Easter lilies as the coldest of seasons has hung to the earth for far too long. Her skin is alabaster, a first unveiling after winter snows have receded, and the first truly magnificent unfolding of her previous labors. Her raven hair falls forward, lovely strands of darkness against pure white petals as she leans forward to examine a bloom closely. Her Sunday bonnet protects her fresh and sensitive skin from the spring sun as she leaves for holiday engagements. She is a floating vision of graceful perfection in disappearing chiffon of the palest pink.

She bends to scoop out the roots of pesky weeds that annoy her immensely, but oh how I love those invading devils, they continuously draw her back to the soil, to the garden. They are her bane and my joy. She is the light and the fresh air under blue skies, and I am like the weeds ever returning to see her reappear, my heart plucked by her hand each day that I kneel at the fence watching her toil.

Does her hair glow reddish next to the cast of orange day lilies? Or is it the days of summer that have lightened her dark head with a halo of radiant light. I sit at the fence painting in long strokes upon slats of old wood, my summer chore, but really, my complete pleasure as I watch her garden grow and bloom under caressing and steady hands. Tawny skin illuminates the sculpture of long slender arms, her lean muscles formed from enormous efforts in the name of cultivation.

As summer advances, her garden is grander with the lengthening of days, my job nears its end; I have drawn it out for an eternity. She labors mere feet from me, stopping to stand erect and remove her glove, sweeping away perspiration from her brow with the back of her hand. She smiles down at her work, a beautiful and loving upturn at the corners of her mouth. Every now and then, she will drink from a tall glass condensing the day upon its smooth wet cylinder. Once a day, she turns to me with a wave hello as I endeavor to focus upon my duties. My heart leaps into my throat as I return her greeting with courtesy, neighborly etiquette, but I am unable to speak.

She cuts the last of summer’s offerings in late fall, coral rosettes blooming before the oncoming winter, her long linen skirt flowing about in a sing-song breeze. Sitting cross-legged in the dirt, I watch her fill a wicker basket while wondering where the roses will sit in her cottage. She shines brightly in the dwindling light of the day as evening comes too quickly, and then she will be gone. My studies call me home, but I know that these are the last few days before she disappears becoming a winter apparition. I must take her in before winter captures the earth, and covers it with grey skies, fading the smile from her lovely countenance as she turns towards sad, lonely, cold days, and my heart is forced to hide in waiting for spring to bring her to me once again.

C.S. Mack Author