There is none here, only cedar, fir and oak. He says, your heavy breasts, your nipples sucked by many children press into my palms and all you do is watch lobelia in your window box. There is no lobelia here, only camas.
Blue muscle flexes a ligament and turns the native soil.
How the blooms taste delight and feed the winter bulb starch we all need. All I know of grace. The stone wall extends around the field but leaves a gap. I could enter but go to the wall knowing hands have placed it here, green grown over green, my fingers through the moss and there is heat. The smell of salt will follow.