In this garden
size of a goatherd,
a tool of iron is your talisman.
Leaves give off cud-borne odors,
repugnant, as you charm
the heavy green tonnage—each stroke
an introduction to a more orderly cosmos.
Soil turned.
Clumps from rains
where water washes high enough
and laps the soft moss,
weighing down its flimsy verdure.
Your gaze casts past those slow-
grown rows. Toward your wife,
a far richer plot to cultivate.
Or
do you know when she approaches
your labor is through? Time to come inside,
the worn stones for chairs, a bare
table, her eyes speaking
something more than permanence.
JEFFREY
INGRAM is originally from
Morrisville, Pennsylvania. He has taught
writing and literature at colleges and
universities in Vermont, Utah, and Colorado.
He has recently had poems published in
Wisconsin Review and The Drexel Online
Journal. Currently, he teaches creative
writing at Arcadia University. He lives
in North Hills, Pennsylvania with his wife,
Kim.
