then peppers and kale. . .
there is lettuce and spinach
and Swiss chard. . .
how I hover like a mother
over her little ones each day,
how I love the sweet and gentle
magic of a garden.
This cycle of dreams
begins in any one
of many houses we have
left behind--two that survived
Quantrill's raid, several more
built later--and in every single one
steep steps rise
past broken windows,
bleak and battered attics,
before opening into a hidden
planetarium of starlings.
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