The Garden
by Kenneth Wanamaker

    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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