The worn path that leads from the tall Oak to the raspberry bushes
reminds me of my grandmother.
She once planted tulips and asparagus,
filling the spaces with blues, pinks, and yellows.
In her cotton dress and wide-brimmed hat,
she dug and sifted, clearing her garden of impossible weeds.
Dreaming of books and poetry. A writer.
I only knew her in her garden.
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