The wiry woman wandering in the woods
looks like she belongs there – dog gallumphing
by her side, then ahead, then returning.
Her hands mostly thrust deep in her pockets,
sometimes gesturing wildly in the air,
sometimes lightly examining the dirt,
the things that grow in it. She doesn’t hurt
the plants — as a competent gardener
she knows what to expect, even if this
is not her garden. It all keeps changing,
that’s what it’s all about. The dog howling
and happy, like another one once. Mists
in the mornings. A strawberry omelet,
or maybe asparagus. Her dry wit.