They make their way through the early morning yard
like old women picking produce at a farmer’s market.
They step carefully.
They pause (rust-colored skirts gathered up)
above the garden’s sticky red clay;
they cluck with approval
and sniff at the leftover
particles of nighttime: dream remnants,
moonlight sighs, and the tender heaviness
of bodies curved together in sleep
which scents the air
along with the sweet fat oranges lying ripe,
split bursting wide-open under the trees
(just waiting to be savored).
© martha lee phelps