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In the patch

of foliage the bonneted

woman planted when she

was lonely and wanting

to feel the cool explosion

of seeds shaken from

the packet to her

palms, the heady

musculature of soil,

sun licking her elbow-

tips, wind caressing the

nuance of her bare

neck --

In that sacred place

of longing, that

garden (and though

she rests on her

bone-colored sofa,

an eye-shield

directing her gaze

by increments more

deeply inward --)

three bucks materialize

to sample her

delicacies, nuzzling

the clothesline's

nondescript dress

now and again with

the velvet of their


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Celia Homesley

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