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.
The more we become compost, the more we understand beauty.
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