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The Cultivator
She is like the garden earth; sifted sand and pebble stone, has furrows in her brow where growth has burrowed wisdom. Her laughter is visible, her heartaches are silver. Crows feet cull ripe flesh to score, fresh fruit to hull. They landed when she wasn't looking and they'll never leave. She snaps beans on the porch and puppies come; hungry for leftovers, salt from her skin. She handles rough approaches with a gentle touch. A hand-me-down virtue from Mama. She runs her hand through the colander, sorts the good from the bad, adds the right amount of salt, simmers the goodness, serves her children and puppies come. ©2000 Peggy Putnam Owen |