In which I personify my garden

I walked into Banana Republic today

wearing old gardening jeans

with dirt stains on the knees

and a faded t-shirt and

muddy sneakers and was

swiftly judged by the skinny-jeans-wearing

petite brunette store clerk

as she hung merchandise

on the clearance rack.

I held my nose in the air and said,

"I can wear whatever I want!"

(well, I said it in my head.)

My internal childlike defiance

made me smile.

I felt cheeky,

like the robins that hop boldly up the mulch pile,

looking for worms.

My garden 

does not judge me

for not having trendy jeans on

when I come to see her in the morning.

My garden

does not judge me

for wearing a ratty old t-shirt

that I have owned for six years,

and she also doesn't care that

I didn't fix my hair

or put on makeup today.

What is the judgement of a store clerk compared with

the grass in my flower bed, which

is cool and green

and moistly squeaks when I grab handfuls of it

out by the roots?

What is it compared with the stalks of iris that push

smooth and slender out of the red-brown clay?

Today, I dressed for

the most important person in my life

and it was not anyone

at Banana Republic. So,

she can deal with it.

I hope I didn't leave any tracks in the store, though.

I'd feel bad about that.