Featured Selection of the Month:
August 2003

Thriving on a quiet vine, no color
I could find a name for, not even

in catalogues, I tore up the garden
with an axe and a shovel. At night,

I lay wrapped in the soreness
hard work kindly leaves.

At dawn, I walked where gardens
weren’t—soil in my shoes,

spreading seed through the heel,
thinking autumn, trailing green—

and still I am digging, in the shade
of encroaching garden’s end.

NJBIZ “After Hours” supplement
February 2003

This poem has been revised since publication.