By Michael Lee Johnson
He is a gardener
with a spyglass.
With an ice pick
cavities are chopped
out of the earth�s torpid
mouth, dry seeds are packed
in with frostbitten fingertips.
He rakes his yard clear
of all snow in winter
so green blades of grass
will pop through frozen earth.
He will weed, thin his garden early.
He is a realist; he writes poetry also.
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