I'm chipping off little pieces
of me
and planting them about.

I've had to throttle
the life
out of those that became weeds.

I may have cried
over seeds
that never grew.

And yet I hold in my hands---

a bundle of paper,
secured by twine,
with stamps all the colors of the rainbow--

a cup of tea-
and once, only once
coffee-
warmed by another's toil--

a shirt purchased
somewhere I've never been-
pressed into my grasp
with a smile so excited-
that suits me as if it had been made for me---

the fruit of a garden well-tended