Benign Neglect


My garden attitude’s benign neglect;
I never went for soil on my hands
or stooping. I’m so old my neck is wrecked
from telephones and tension – I don’t need
to stress my knees and back as I’d expect
if I were to address each sprouting weed.
Now trapped at home, I notice and inspect
the buds of roses, where the frond expands,
and how the light is perfectly correct.

This entry was posted in Aging, Coronaverse, Flora, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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