Works

She's in the garden kneeling on soft plastic pulling handfuls of weeds and witch grass from among her favorite poppies

 

 picked from roadside Mannheim thirty or more years ago. I'll be there to empty her weed buckets if Sunday morning 

laziness will let me

.Where's the poetry in this?

 The taste of pollen on her cheeks- the brushback freckled forehead-soft sureness of her constant creation of our Eden.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

i know this poem from my own yard...just wonderful Donald