It’s simple to just sit, I’ve found:
the birds tell me what’s happening above,
the untreated mold on the beams by the floor
show the progress of what has been,
and the billowing green growth of the yard
indicates what will be next.
I planted some rosemary and cilantro starters
and in a matter of weeks
both have blossomed into bushes of spice
larger than my belly when it was full.
The chives and parsley are growing more slowly
perhaps wanting the absent sun so they can stretch
or needing drier air in order to climb like monkeys.
My ankles swell up sometimes, especially the right one;
I don’t know if I’m supposed to shamble or walk my path,
but I do know that if I don’t follow spirit
all else is lost
to the ravages of the flooding drought.
Sometimes I still remember
the feel of my restless, yearning youth
and the long, hot summers when I learned to love
as my friends and I set out to gift the world.
Little did we know that youth has its own arc
ending slowly in drawn out age
mellowed or hammered by the way we’ve lived our time.
Little did we suspect that such a blessing existed
counting off the years and decades for us
like angels of infinite forgiveness.