The Woman with Carrots
She’s there whenever I am,
in the morning on the trail by the wash,
always at the spot where the old trees grow largest;
I think they’re probably watching.
She quietly pushes a black stroller
with a dog in it, small pink bows on curly white ears,
and a ten pound bag of carrots
chopped and perched accessibly on top.
More than once I’ve seen her talking
to herself—or maybe to her dog—or, this morning,
to the rabbits. They live by the dozens in this chosen spot
where shade kisses the desert from
the trees that grow like a psalm, all of us watching
the quiet woman pushing her little white dog,
talking to animals, and sewing the ground
with pile after pile of orange kindness.
Once I saw her in the grocery store,
nothing in her cart but carrots
and a little white dog with bows on.
I wonder, do angels not need to eat?
Sometimes we smile at each other, awkwardly, but
she doesn’t know how much I think she deserves a poem,
how much we (the dog, the rabbits, the trees, and I),
think she might be a poem.
Editor’s Note: The meticulous imagery in this poem elevates the narrative from mere oddity (dog in a stroller + carrots) to the moment when the speaker realizes that this woman adds joy to the world.
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