Green Peppers

(poems go here) Your hands camouflage with the dark brown dirt, they dig into the pot and are out of sight. Your skin is coarse...oh never mind. I tell myself it’s from all the sunlight and not from all the nicotine. Pushing the seeds farther in, gusts of winds pass through my blonde hair and strands blow in front of my eyes. I cant see, I keep them closed. Smells of basil, parsley and green peppers surround me. There’s never many spoken words between us, like father like son I guess. A working man doesn’t truly need words. A working mans words are only a mere shadow of what they create with their hands. Your hands wrinkled and rough, I laugh. I don’t think I’ve ever seen your nails clean. I open my eyes and think to myself, our hands are our visible brains anyway. You cover the seeds with more dirt like softly dropping a seasoning into a sauce. You cover the pot with a white cloth and wipe your hands on your shirt. I know you’ll never teach me things like Mathematical excursions or talk about the complex poetry of Dante. But you have shown me how to get fresh water from the mountains. How to tear off dead leaves to help a plant survive. Taught me how to win at solitaire and how to plant green peppers.