This poem came out of a discovery my husband made this morning in our garden: an old horseshoe. We suppose the horseshoe must be at least 100 years old, as this neighborhood has not been zoned for farming in at least that long.
Horseshoe
We tend the garden,
Manipulate earth, roots, limbs –
In desert sun we contrive an oasis.
The shovel strikes a rusty horseshoe,
A remnant of others who have sweated here.
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