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Far from the madding crowd

I garden at 5:00 a.m.
early morning, heavy dew

why not pick some peas
crisp pods

some full some not
puzzled wife who thinks

me nuts, a braille gardener
who squats with God

no accusation now
but affirmation

‘what are you doing?’
an approbation of the divine

who thinks me no more
eccentric than he

who walks the peas
in the cool of the day

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