HENRY MOORE'S WOMEN IN THE GARDENS Comments

The smell of rain has infected the gardens
Henry Moore's women inhale the air.

And you, son, take aim at me, camouflaged
in the cavernous whiteness of those beings.
"Dead!, you're dead!" you exult.

Among the magic projectiles adrift
- now chrysalises now arks in the flood -
they ask in their calm bodies for peace
with the earth, its furrows, its grass.

Are these our ships returning to the soil?
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