After putting in the garden


After putting in the garden
my wrists are weak from
wrestling the roto-tiller,
a black rind under each
fingernail and my dirt,
built of leaf, ash, manure,
clings to my socks.
Earthy boots sit by door
clumpy with brown riches.
From dining-room window
I look on black canvas,
dirt we built, nutrition,
food read to begin. What a
good weakness to feel.

– Wm. Marling

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