love in the garden

The lush impulse to dig, plant and look is something genetic. You can't decide to love it, anymore than you can turn on the chemical spigot for another human. But having been born with it--it is as nutty and ecstatic as the human folly. More lanquidly paced, and more muddy, but gloriously sensual anyways. Here's my guy doing the purple garden dance:



And, taking a rest on a log--the resultant ease liquifies and turns to gold in the spine and pelvis: