My fingers are long, wrinkles
running their length, their colour
vibrant, blues and purples,
overlapping like the feathers
of a brilliant bird

I am on the outside now,
looking in. I see myself
planting vegetables at
seventy, tulips and roses,
the dirt wraps around my hands
like a second skin

I shall gather a garden
to me, hide in the creases
of plants, the call of my
name shall shake tree
branches and yet
I shall not move

I will sit, filthy and
fragrant, fold in on myself
like a house of cards and
listen to the whisper
of the wind