Three eights by twelve, corroded and bent by a forgotten task. It’s a chance encounter of idle hands and a wayward nut in similar circumstance. An unlikely balancing act, a landscape of utility, accompanied by string and pin, and a scribble in orange.
The upsides down in the greater wilderness that’s my garden. Once again I’m beating back a summer’s worth of neglect and it’s all pointy and sharp. My efforts exact a measurable toll in torn clothing and lost blood . . . the price for feeble attempts at bending nature to my will.