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Gardner, You've Dirt on Your Hands
by Connie Walle

You tell me
I am pretty
as a rose.

That the softness
of my petals
makes up for
the occasional
sharp thorns.

But I keep
finding myself
in this vase alone,

my petals dropping
one by one
my leaves curling.

Rumor has it ‐
you've been seen
out in the garden
among the daisies.

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