Common GroundA man turns dirt by hand, makes a brown bed from lanky grass he should have mowed a week ago, unearths a dormant seed of memory not his own: summer morning a century past, dew on the same patch of earth he is working, a child digging, dress-hem damp with mud. Hands picking roses and lavender to set by the half-empty bed, a son at his desk penning the first draft of a eulogy, a man thinking about his coming crop of squash the woman in the bed will never eat. The undertaker repainting his black cart. What We Have Built |
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