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.