Gardener

Her face appeared attractive under smudges of dirt. Her hair, coming undone from being tied back, might look silky and flowing under different light. Perhaps her shapeless T-shirt would turn later into something more slinky. But in truth, she was beautiful because of her love.

Do not be distracted by my superficial talk of appearances. It was her love of the soil, the seasons within which she worked, a lopper in one hand, a bucket full of tangled plants no longer catching anyone’s eye.

I had lopped off a couple of red dahlias myself, burned brown by frost, the stems bundled with twine for the city compost. I had dug up the tubers, soil clinging to no one’s idea of beauty, but they will back go into the earth next spring because of their spectacular red blossoms.

We humans have an eye for beauty. Young women gardeners who smile and chat with old gardeners are pretty enough sometimes. We cannot help what we are. But much as we look for beauty, it is still deeper than the smudges on that young woman’s dirty cheek.

It’s about love and life – and a measure of beauty.