Aroma wreathed around my neck, against
my cheeks, upon my brow: the talcum scent
of new wisteria encircled tensed
impelling calves, caressed my arms and spent
itself on canted slabs of sidewalk, curbs
with stenciled numbers, gutters filled with spume
of maple. Striding by the blooming herbs
and flowers, I was bounded by perfume.

Alive the lyric lays in me, to grow
in dusk like rootlings, to abide and thrive
in future history. I’m good to go:
Today I met myself at 65 –
a wiser, better person I can be
for all the careful editing by me.