The Last Garden

Finding a rusty nail in the half-black earth,
becoming scared for my hands
(swelled with secret rivers) ,
morning breath shortens, my arms
hang deadened at my sides, as

a hawk circles in the dark white sky,
watching my changing into earth and wood,
prepared to be angelic, watching over
the final digging, at least at the moment,
for this time.

poem by Leslie Philibert
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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