The new weed-wacker hums with the efficiencey of a new instrument. The overgrown weeds, along the edges of the cinder blocks bordering the garden, fall before it’s spinning plastic tabs. I squeeze the trigger and slowly step side-to-side. The weed-wacker slices more weeds effortlessly.

The backyard, side, and front yard soon look trimmed.

Next, it’s on to the fallen tree at the far end of the backyard. The older chainsaw doesn’t leap to life as easily as the new weed wacker, but it does start. I’m slicing through sections of long-dead tree, cutting pieces of prized dead wood for tonight’s outdoor fire.

Finally, the ancient, backpack leaf-blower slowly cycles up. I soon clear floral debris that has lain on the driveway since spring broke. I clear the walkways, patio and the concrete patio under our deck.

Only once I’ve put the power tools away and showered to I feel the impact an afternoon of tending my property has taken on my body. Even a glass of burgundy isn’t enough!

cumulus clouds

filling the once-clear sky

as my arms throb

even the thought of guiness

by the fire doesn’t salve

5/30/20: 30th May 2020 prompt: Gerry Muse #209 (occasional tanka prose) My Body