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You would think, looking at my garden of weeds

that I haven't gotten my hands dirty in weeks

or that there's been too much humidity

or mosquitoes or New Jersey gnats

or so much rain that mud clings to shoes

weighing me down to my dirty knees.


A few things are growing fine, potatoes

yams, and various herbs, but none

of the expected things, like lettuce or peas,

no marigolds among other things unplanned.


Today, in the coolness of morning,

my husband off to his measured day,

pulling up weeds that reach my thighs,

I was wondering when did I plant

the seeds of broken glass, plastic dinosaurs

and a lone grey soldier, his rifle broken?


I let the Triceratops guard the beets

and the soldier stand as sentry

to one struggling squash plant, not knowing

if it will yield yellow or zuccini,

for the world is suddenly too large

and I must attach myself to small things.

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