It's
clay and clings, this earth.
Chopped
and shaped, it lies
in
lumps where weeds decay
and
garden debris burns.
New
soil fills the pit
it
came from, strong for flower
after
flower down where roots
keep,
distant from upper air,
where
next year's shoots stay safe.
They
race over the lawn, scrap
their
game away, stopped by
the
bite of bright geraniums:
your
daughters argue above
tough
docks growing,
your
son’s eyes aslant of grass
that shivers
resilient
on the
clot of clumps
still and long in your sight.
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