resurrection/unto dust

Noticed when I dug these garden beds in the spring how much I felt like an undertaker. Here I am in August with the fruits of that labor, cucumber leaves translucent to the sun sheltering cheery yellow blossoms and fat fruits, "Poona Kheera" a variety from India that starts lime green, turns sunny yellow, then rich mocha brown.

Nine years ago this week my mother passed away, and this August time is always auspicious, one of beginnings and endings, rich heavy-bearing thoughts, vine tangles and somewhere within that my own version of revelation, my humble pie.

Dirt undoubtedly outdoes even us in its variations on color: I remember the rose, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple of the Chama Canyon in New Mexico. But I was struck in today's rite by my own flesh color and the soil, the dry dusty soil I lay on. We were so akin, the dirt and I, against the cucumber greens and yellows.