The Immortal

I work in the garden by the pond,

a sensitive, insecure gardener.

An artist or poet perhaps. Slow,

pretty, but not altogether productive.

Barely a breeze.

 

Agnes moves like an ode to creation,

an immortal with the knowledge

of what has to be done. What can and cannot be.

Her heart, rooted and perennial.

She feels what I can only see.

 

 

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2 thoughts on “The Immortal

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