Riding the
old yellow Cub Cadet, I mow long
rectangles around the back fields.  Out
in the garden, between me and the road, my husband works with the kids, tying
short, thick tomato plants to their stakes with long strips of cotton.

From where I
sit, rattling and humming along on the old mower, the boys are bright, little
flowers that have sprouted legs, walking, tumbling, running through the garden
in their shirts of bright teal and red. 
My husband is the tallest flower, an iris perhaps, overseeing the work
and play.

The twins flop and hop climbing and falling on each other and by the time I move on
to mowing the front, circling the overgrown bushes, they’ve pulled my husband
down to the green grass.  He is a horse
now, crawling along with two cowboys astride until they all tumble again to the earth.


There is
such beauty there, in that wide open space, under the bright sun and blue and I
am so thankful, for those flowers that grew in my body, for the legs they run
on and for their father who plays with them there in the garden.   

This post is linked with Jennifer Dukes Lee.  She’s telling a lovely story this week about life and death and kittens, so pop over to soak in some sweetness.

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