The Gardener's Ego

An intruder, an interloper, a decidedly
unwelcome presence in a place where
the inhabitants feel, with justice, I
have no place to be. All of those 
descriptives apply to the gardener
anxious to get on with the work at hand
in actual fact for the committed and so
dedicated homebody who loves to feel
the crumbly, manipulable soil and smell 
its rich fecundity, digging manically
into its damp promise with the ferocity
of selfish satisfaction that spring has
arrived and blooms cannot be far behind
and in the feverish action suddenly
there appears squirming from the depths
of the soil just disturbed a fat, wiggling
worm so essential to the organic matter
performing its magic awakening the
garden perennials and receiving the
annual bedding plants. Did the spade
sever the worm, or is it whole? A 
slight spasm of concern, a momentary
pause and the conviction that this is my
garden, the worm only renting a plot
so whatever befalls the unwary is sad
and the world must turn as it will.