At half past 6 I went downstairs, and moved
the switch to “Run” to run the water here.
For though the garden cannot be improved,
the soil I can see is looking sere.
I turn the system on this time each year,
and now I’ve checked it – far as I can tell,
amid the glut of green the 8 appear
to rise to programmed function very well.
On Friday/Saturday I felt unwell.
Discomfort was intestinal, so yes,
I had much pain and worry, truth to tell:
concerned my future’d altered I’ll confess.
I tried to be a patient patient, guess
at diet change and read from Web MD.
At 4 p.m. relief came, more than less,
from home and time, and not the pharmacy.
Of late, reviewing letters I once wrote,
and journal entries, early poems displayed,
I wonder why I saved them but I note
the personality they all conveyed.
Consistent and apparently self-made,
with language, logic, answering immersion,
the character’s complex like a cascade –
a cataract of parts that form one version.
Intending to devote an hour a week
to sort through paper records and select
a few to keep, provided they’re unique
and trigger recollection, and reject
the bulk of piles, files, notebooks, seek-
ing diminution after I inspect,
I’m reading more the more I lessen shelf,
both tired and inspired, by myself.
For months I saw when walking an abode
of tent and tarp and cushion, fairly neat,
and large enough to earn its own zipcode,
prohibited but countenanced, 10 feet
away from cars. To passing eyes it showed,
although the user seemed to be discreet.
Some rousting acts must lately have been made,
and now 4 planters form a barricade.
Abundant as the garden is right now,
some pruning will be necessary soon.
I love the look but thought I’d need a plow
to get from gate to door this afternoon.
I don’t want a machete – that’s not how
to remedy this glut of nature’s boon.
I’ll grab my gloves and shears and hat, and ask
my garden guy to help me with this task.
I’ve tidy-filed papers here for years,
and recently I started to dispose.
A box of paid-off mortgages and tiers
of tax returns were items I first chose
to toss, stiff data that I don’t suppose
I’ll ever need again. Two boxes full,
before confronting signs I’ve been verbose,
and now the process slows with recall’s pull.
Confronted with the choice when I was young,
to garner disapproval speaking out,
or listen to my mother, hold my tongue,
collecting compliments I have no doubt,
I opted to express myself, with shout
if needful but impolitic. A shove
of words I chose instead of flirty pout.
I needed it to be myself you love.
As much as I feel 23 inside,
or 17, or 32, like you,
I live in fact, and I don’t want to hide
from changes that with every year accrue.
So I will face my face, accept I’ve lost
much elasticity and useful fat.
My bones are holey, and my nights are tossed;
I’m drawn to sunny windows like a cat.
But basking in these revelations makes
me also vow to not assess me weak.
I’ll move with caution and avoid the breaks,
but keep on moving. I have passed my peak,
but winding down’s not steep and not a drop.
I breathe. I stretch. I walk. And I won’t stop.
Wisteria compressed by tarpish shade,
and every year delayed by trees that steal
the sun, is budding now. And what’s displayed
are blossoms in two colors. Purple’s real
and white is genuine, for something made
a plant bear both, or maybe set to heal
in time the one we thought we drowned. Some years
it took, but now diversity appears.
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