#86

The dawn blossoms into morning, real morning even as the Autumn air retains her chill. Bark chips sliver into my toes, my soles, and my soul. I dig. I clip. I remove and replant. Growth gives way to compost, storing energy for the Winter ahead. Surrounded with life, and death. No sweat decorates my brow, it's far too cold. Still, I feel the responsibility to manage the Earth. Our appanage even before the Curse. O, but what is time for I am in the Garden.