Nothing more gorgeous than her gardening,
Which needs no barge or poop, just steer manure
And leafmeal crumble. Mulch is promised us,
Not always promptly. What we grow takes time,
Then flowers in the night. Conservators
Have failed their catalogues; Linneans weep,
Knowing somehow they've given it no name.
Ignis fatuus, some pink scholar said,
But he cared more about the Amazon,
One-breasted warbler, clear cut first, then mute.
She works the soil, not knowing if the fruits
Will see her, call her by her name, or care.
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