The Garden [V1]

a warm morning
she walks into the garden with bare feet and hands
cold dew on the grass
soft clumps of dirt clinging to her toughened soles

she rests on her knees at the edge of the bed
hands working slowly
blending earth and flesh
a woman as a mother

strong lucid fingers pushing bulbs of an iris
deep into the soil
with a wisdom of depth
and birth that is sure to come

soft careful fingers pack the soil

her wrists and forearms are moist and
black as the sun dips west
her calloused knees are worn
she stands to feel a soft whisper from the east
closing her eyes her fingers move
like boughs
to her belly