I can see your evidence. The soil is mounded there where once was even. The rounded curve of the flesh engorged and overripe through overrun neglect. Even after harvest there’s no return. The edges of the bed bow wider now from the deluge and the churning. The base of the boards have weakened through the damp days and hot nights. Even now, four seasons round, the body morphs and your affects are visible naked to others’ eyes.
Never again the same as the barren ‘scape before. With each season a new introduction. With each turn another getting-to-know-you period. You know yourself through brutely forced consciousness but are as of yet unaware.
I hold awareness for us both. I tend. I feed. I sow. I dig deep and I find more than I knew I could in the depths of discovery. Time and again the necessity is met from stores unknown until a hopefully never known future where they run dry.