at times I was more
concerned with her sins,
than I was with mine.
my guilt seemed less important
at the time.
I felt that if I could change
her,
new seasons would unfold.
new trees would grow.
our garden would begin,
one seed at a time,
me at the plow, her on
bended knees with a burlap
sack, dropping into
the ruffled rows, love,
love love.
then we'd wait hand in hand,
for the rain the sun for divine
intervention
to fall from above.
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