My Hands are Green and Wrinkled

My hands are green and wrinkled. I just used soap to try to get them clean.
Didn't work.
They're not green and wrinkled from greed and counting money,
They're green and wrinkled from mowing lawn and emptying the mower's bag and pulling weeds and there are a thousand spines in my hands and my legs
Are covered in fire ant bites.
I worked this morning from 5 AM, worked the keyboard, read the papers, answered letters,
Solved problems, or tried to, for perfect strangers.
By noon I'd had enough of it and stepped outside to the acre-and-a-half that needed mowing badly and  the electric push mower and did the work.
At two I did an interview for nearly three hours with a fascinating person who's subject of a new story but
Hated being inside while a perfect day was coming and going.
So I did what I could for my money and to change the world, then promised more talk tomorrow and disappeared to buy the cats and dogs and birds and me some food.
And reappeared to the desperate need to mow more lawn, to pull more weeds, to
See my hands wrinkled and green. To get more spines from the angry weeds and stings from the fire ants I molested.
I did, I do, I'm happy.
I love the visceral.