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Gardener

For weeks, I have looked up
from my writing to see you
walking barefoot through the yard,
your toes disappearing into
the grass and the dirt,
and in your hands, a small
garden spike and a bag of seeds.

You flit about, barelegged,
magpie thrusting your sharp beak
into the fertile earth.

This morning, I woke up
to find a mad painter
had spilled his paints
all over the yard.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.
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