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The Garden

         I feel the ragged underbrush
         of my mind clearing.
         In quiet contemplation
         I pull out
         every errant root,
         every errant thought,
         leaving room
         for the important strands
         to bloom.

         Every morning:
         fuller leaves
         mew crisp life
         hints of flowers and fruit.
         And something new
         growing within as well.

         My spirit blooms
         with your every flower.
         You have nourished me
         long before I taste
         your first salad.