The Garden Was Promiscuous

The garden was promiscuous,
uncaring whether turned by worms
or an old and wrinkled hand.
The verdict was in mandalas-
light swimming out of lettuce heads
or caught in water drops gathered to zucchini.

And you,
your skin old and dry
met with a thousand droplets from your eyes
that would not smooth the wrinkles of your skin
nor the vining of your arms
nor stop the swaying dirge of earth
that moves 
imperceptible 
beneath your feet . . .


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