Leaves

Leaves

I spent March single, spent a lot of time
in Target, wishing I had grabbed a cart
instead of one small basket. All the things
I ever buy there weigh too much. I spent
time poking at my Amazon account
or talking, sleepy, with Alexa just
to hear a voice that isn’t the odd cry
of my cross Wookiee cat. Now April comes
and I am in the nursery again,
observing shrubberies with practiced eyes
and impractical brain. April comes green
and with it comes my birthday and I think
is this the year I care I’m getting old?
Perhaps it is. Each day seems like a stone
I shake out from my shoe in pain, but when
each rattles out I am another day
closer to spending death single. The spring
is always flawed. The rot already there
behind the bloom, a cavity inside
the whitest tooth. But I am turning back
to compost. Hello garden. Hello dust.

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