just like that

for whatever reason
summer maybe
the writer took a break
did not worry about which way
to arrange the alphabet
did not concern herself with the organization
of superlative adjectives,
did not wish to impress with
her catalogue of dictionary.com sparklers,
was not obsessed with how
to make the nouns any prettier
than they already were.

today the writer
pushed her hands into the earth
fingered the weeds
and felt the roots give way.
just like that.

it was a simple matter
of tugging at the unseen things
relying on
a fingertip of intuition
closing eyes to a blinding sun
and pulling.

later
rising from the garden
lined with dirt
skin streaked ochre
her back hot from too much exposure
the palms of her hands
a mulch of spent stalk and frantic insects
the writer realized
how guiltless she felt
abandoning the desk, the poised pen,
how much she didn't miss
that ludicrous arch her neck had to make
to shuffle the contents of her head.

and though her legs hurt
and the backs of her fingers
were tracked with rose thorns,
and though she had been bitten at the ankles
by a flock of mosquitoes,
the writer saw how the sweet peas climbed
like teenagers,
how boldly the bell flowers took to the pathway,
saw how each plant angled itself
without apology,
with a kind of voraciousness actually,
a green and wanting hunger,
to get its full measure of sun.

and with a kind of glee
the writer realized
how much she, too,
was flesh.