Every tree in the orchard dangles ripely, unjustly 
dripping luscious fruit the size of four hands. The 
imposter sits, supremely still, in the midst of it all 
and gazes upon the garden scene. The kale is full 
to overflowing; the carrots are digging a well for 
themselves; the rabbits have compounded labor 
for a new wire fence and the imposter gazes down 
at her hands. These hands? Only two hands. 
What’s the use of two hands with these fruit trees? 
Two hands catch nary a seed, for the seed is 
the whole, and these hands are but two. Marigolds 
face the drowning sun rays and try to hold tight 

but they don’t have hands either 
and cannot speak for themselves.