Gardening

The sun warms
the back of my body,
as I trim back
tea-rose runners
that have leapt
over the wall.
Working my way
around the backyard,
I do the same
to morning glories
and the pink flowers
that also grow
over the wall,
increasing our privacy.
As I make my way
around the garden,
the sun warms
my other sides,
missing nothing.
I lop a few dead branches
from the palmettos
near the hammock.
Then I go around again,
loading the trimmings
into a wheelbarrow,
as I gratefully accept
the sun's blessing.
Taking the wheelbarrow
through the garage
and into the street,
I almost forget
to put on clothes.

Soy un poeta naturista. Eso parece ser el nicho que me estoy tallando, y no estoy solo en ese espacio. Aquellos que tienen suficiente interés en mi poesía como para leer más que el posteo más reciente probablemente verán más que vería un mirón. Esto es como debería ser, y también se hace necesario por la censura infantil de la desnudez natural y no-sexual de parte de Facebook.

I am a naturist poet. That seems to be the niche that I am carving out for myself, and I am not alone in that space. Those who are interested enough in my poetry to peruse more than just the most recent post are apt to see more than would a gawker. This is as it should be, and is also made necessary by Facebook's childish censorship of natural, non-sexual nudity.