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And then there are the wild geese, Mary.
Whose moving stitches across the sky suture me inside
something
Reminding me that whether I go or stay,
I am not without my own migration.

And then there is this mulch pile, given freely from the town
full of sleeping snakes and baby mice.
I stab into it—the only way to get a satisfying bite
and turn it over into the barrow.

The raspberry brambles and their red thorns
have thrust themselves into the ground
and argue with my efforts to do my good work.

And then, this cool and creamy breeze
thickens the space around me,
the sweat and chill I create
under my tired coat
leaves no room for questions.

The barrow fills and then I dump it
again
and again
onto the berries
the burning bushes
the muddy patches by the shower
Creating my own stitches across the yard.

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