Gardening 

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Gardening

I’ve left a slim volume
of poetry open on the grass
beyond the grasp

of the oak’s shadow.
As the wind slides
about the house,

through the forsythia,
patting the marigold blooms
as a father pats his son’s head,

the pages will turn,
splash as water,
tossing its words,

letters like seeds,
upon the soft earth
that boarders the fence

where the sun shines brightest
each afternoon.

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