From my leisurely Sunday morning
I see how a blackbird stubbornly tugs
until the worm admits it’s dispatched.
A hundred times the blackbird must
have hopped past my father’s eyes
as he pushed the spade into the soil,
his shoulders hunched,
his half-smiling lips tighter
than in former years.
Now that I know him,
am an eldest daughter,
he silently produces a word
that has to do with pruning,
not putting dahlias in vases
but letting them last in the ground
for a whole season,
retaining their shape in tubers.
Procreated by chance,
I think, and watch the blackbird’s
cautious, patient stance.
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