Winter gardener

I was land-hungry in my youth.
In the summer I turned soil
and in winter hoped for snow—

a Platonic kind of field,
rich in solitude as any desert
and as free of weeds,

the leafless rose in the yard
alone with its snarl
of barbed canes.

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    1. We’ll see. At the moment I have no loftier goals than to write a good poem tomorrow.


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