When I think I haven’t worked hard enough, I look at the soil that has pressed itself deep into the cracks of my skin, and at the purple stain of wild blackberries that has seeped in. Hands washed, body showered & bathed, And its memory of hours of work put in holds tight to my fingers. The soil & stain know they are safe here. Welcomed, treasured, revered. They have become part of my fingerprints, The way I recognize myself, Know it’s my own hands I look at that bring tears to my eyes. Dirt is etched into my fathers ring that I wear, Amplifying the holiness of the cross it bears. I am sun stained and So. So. Tired. The essence of farming lives in the soreness of my cells. Picking beans already feels like a thousand years ago, And tomorrow will come too soon- Before I am rested. And I will great the morning sun rising over the mountains will a deep breathe. I will pull my boots on and my body will ache for the days work- Begging to feel and overcome the discomfort of hundreds of feet bent over pulling weeds, unsatisfied until my muscles want to give from exhaustion, not done until my shirt is soaked with sweat, and still from depths something asks for more. More work, more ache, more hours. Slowly, please… Through each painstaking and life giving moment here So I can absorb the density of every single second I’ve spent with my knees pressed into this altar. Slowly, please… Because I know I am safe here.