The girl in the garden, is not just a girl.

As she covers newspaper with mulch, she wonders.

What am I?

I massaged my friend, and my friend liked it.

Perhaps I will go into massage.

She extends the rake into the truck bed,

And takes a pile of warm, smelly wood chips.

The chips are brownish black.

Maggie sneaks her fingers into the mulch, loving the smell.

Her back and her neck hurt a bit.

She has heeled others, but not herself.

Fifth grade, Mrs. Godsey told her she could write well.

On a sixth grade level if she tried.

I may be a writer, she considered.

What am I?

Covering the headlines with brown chunks.

The mail man and the cat distract me.

The mailman and the cat have a place.

But me?

Even the weeds that I pluck will soon have a place in the compost.

But me?

Maggie paused, somewhere between the earth and the sky.

In revelation:

I embrace my simplicity.

If nothing else.

Today, now, here, I am a gardener.