She places on the tip of her finger
a seed.
lowering it carefully in a crevice of loam
she hums softly Sweet Adeline,
cups the earth
then pats and smoothes
as she does the round of dough
on her pastry board.
She walks each row
swinging a sprinkler can
like a censer frankincensing aisles,
kneels by the pine trellis
and watches a hawk cross the sky.
He finds her two hours later
fetaled in unsprouted corn,
lowers her bonnet,
pats the dirt from her knees,
smoothes wrinkles in denim
and hoists onto his cart
her body,
pausing briefly at the
impression of her shoulder
in moist soil.
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