The Garden [V2]

a warm morning
she walks the cold dew of the grass to the garden
with bare calloused soles

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

with wisdom of depth her
pained fingers bury the bulb of an iris
into the warm soil
with wisdom she will wait
for a birth that is sure to come

careful fingers pack the soil

her wrists are moist and black
as the sun dips west
knees groaning as she
stands to feel a soft whisper from the east
with closed eyes her fingers move
like boughs
to her bare belly