There is a definite spring in her step,

as she potters among her crocks and beds,

harvesting her crop of late winter weeds,

and planting summer bulbs in pockets deep.

She is very neat and deliberate

in her movements, methodical and spare,

as she nips and tucks and tills, here and there,

like the court-dancing doves on her doocot.

Her garden becomes her, as she becomes

her garden.  They circle one another,

weaving an intimacy together

from the secrets they share of spores and corms,

while, on the doocot roof, the two doves feed

each from the mirror of the other’s need.