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The Garden

When spring arrives you turn the earth over.

The long-handled spade brings worm tunnels to light.

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Robins carry the feast to young beaks. You unearth

rocks, roots, colonies of ants. Heave

a stone the size of an elephant's foot

into the mulch pile behind the house,

catch sweat as it drips from your lip to your tongue,

break up clumps of dirt with a rake,

carve the furrows with the hoe; sow the seeds

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which are the seeds of hope because

you just might get back

what you put in. So you persist,

hose in hand - the fine spray of water

from the reservoir in the hills,

more than you need. What you want

is another story. What you want

lies dormant in the moist garden

of your soul - ever ready to sprout and grow.

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