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Beyond the hedge, this other garden
where we tend the brittle shells of the young
each protected by a fierce spiked tongue
or over there, past the hydrangeas
the rusted thoughts of the old
creaky with fears and forgetting
And what is it we dream, as we
water and weed?
To soften their landings, as they grow
To show them the constancy that
holds them safe like the soil
to turn now and then away
to have someone else pour the tea

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