It is deliberate work
thinning the carrots,
the fingers slowly traveling
the row. It is right
that it should be careful,
unweaving the slender
green stems, choosing
the sprouts that will stay,
tugging on the thin white threads
of roots that must go. It is right
that there is tenderness
in the hands as they do
what need be done,
though the work
is non-sentimental.
Where there are too many,
none will thrive.
There is room for this fact
in the gardener, though
it is easier, somehow,
to pretend that there
is no metaphor
worth noticing, just
the task at hand, giving
each carrot enough room
to grow. They’re just carrots.
It’s just a garden.