A poet sees radish sprouts
pushing upwards like clover blossoms.
She digs the grubby dirt
for their tart red bellies.
In the morning, it’s raining radishes.

As she juggles the small tubers
with outstretched hands, they rush like water
through sieve holes. Life itself is a container
that cannot measure, a pie crust
that crumbles with its filling.

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