His Wife

My wife is not afraid of dirt.


She spends each morning gardening,


stooped over, watering, pulling weeds,


removing insects from her plants


and pinching them until they burst.


She won’t grow marigolds or hollyhocks,


just onions, eggplants, peppers, peas –


things we can eat. And while she sweats


I’m working on my poetry and flute.


Then growing tired of all that art,


I’ve strolled out to the garden plot

and seen her pull a tomato from the vine


and bite into the unwashed fruit


like a soft, hot apple in her hand.


The juice streams down her dirty chin


and tiny seeds stick to her lips.


Her eye is clear, her body full of light,


and when, at night, I hold her close,


she smells of mint and lemon balm.

— Andrew Hudgins

via among the pines