My woman is deep in the bush beans so newly unblossomed from the fish of our son that her bending is the measured bend of the old, but still, her hands are quick, harvesting the square of garden we have carved from the straining August field flowers that throw their light and motion upon her shoulders. This is not the girl who fished the crescent moon, casting toward the mystery of trout, speaking of the children in her blood, the bare springing wheat of them, the hunger, the ache: neither is she the waking bride who spoke the slow stones of my name in the pale October dawn of our first night with autumn crackling at the window like a fire; nor is she the woman learning the tides to violence, her guts gripping the boy—the girl come to give the great two-fisted cost of pain in letting life slip down from between her legs. She has carved her square, a girl in the garden, netted in field flowers, and summer blonde in light, not of the heavy August sun, but of herself, in brilliance. David Passey is an English major and presently lives in Highland. We know nothing about him except that his phone has been disconnected. We assume it's because he is a poet.