~In the garden where your mother sat mending the torn sail laundry flaps deliriously.
The boat is in dry dock.~
~You are sole mistress of this place, counting the deer among the asparagus, bare feet heedless of ticks.~
~Over the porch, a wasp’s nest breeds while an oriole pecks the fallen peach. It is summer once again, the season at its fevered work~
~small calamities in the grass, weeds encroaching on dianthus, ant struggling with a skeletal bee,
the rock garden dry and gray.~
~A trowel gleams in the sun, but the air is charged with storm. Gravity pulls the rosy heads down. It will not do to work today.~
~From the harbor, unseen, a wind whips up the speckled iris and lifts the veiled curtains of the nonagenarian’s tilting house.~
~The first drops dampen the gardener at midlife, who hefts a basket of weeds, pausing to take root and stock.
-Carol Alexander~
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