She digs into the fertile ground,
Arranges the words in tidy rows
Spaces them, inch by inch and iamb by iamb
With careful blanks between.
And maybe there’s a predominance of certain fragrances
And maybe they’re just there to hide the smell of the earth
Too wild, too organic for this garden;
Some things must remain decently hidden.
She rocks back on her heels, brushes a curl of insecurity off her forehead
And surveys her work. It is good. She self-consciously tweaks a shoot of her soul to stand straight.
She envies her neighbor’s uncalculated glory of wildflowers
More than she cares to admit.