pushing eighty, planting daisies, life has
rung you like a towel. once before,
your heart would beat for men and the fear of
dying alone. now that you are doing
so, it’s not as bad as you’d supposed.

you marvel that you are alive, you think
sometimes that you have died, for you
are pale and peaceful as a corpse.
you pat the mulch and cut the weeds and give
back to life what it unduly takes.