What do I get?
if I make a Robert Johnson
with a dirt devil
do I get free weeding
for life, gardens
extraordinaire no matter what
ills befall the stations of my slow
and out of the way life
blooms, buds, pods, fruit, legumes, aromas
when the future winds
my past tightly
vining and singing
constrictor-like, squeezing
days and nights greenery
under starry magnetism
a Blake print frameless
standing
when no one else
wills a life sentence
spoken by the Earth
and sky explaining
self to myself
a crossroads where
garden paths
meet calling like cranes
on overhead wings
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