I am writing stories at the library with dirt on my knees. Or the sun is past noon between two rows of tomatoes, and there is a poem. Born, like we all are, of physical labor, of sunlight and rain. I am a farmer with a pen clipped to her beltloop. A poet with leaves in my hair. My stories are born in a war-waging country, written by a war-hating woman. My poems grow like weeds from the cracks in the asphalt of Providence streets, and get hung upside down in the kitchen to dry.

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