Having risen this morning from a pot of succulents
it throbs like a miniature sun.
I warm my eyes in its brilliance.     

Three generations of women have left
their fingerprints on this plot of earth
(half a threshing floor two families once shared):

irises purple the mid-morning air,
the grape vine leafing fills in the blanks
on a south-facing wall,

the figs fatten like an infant scrotum,
and the neighbour, ancestral enemy,
is out in his garden, poisoning weeds.