Why am I not sad to be old
today? On my back, in my garden
grass blades tinge my neck.
Long-sleeved days stretch
across the yard.
Next door, little Isla names
the one-eyed Susans, by the fence—
those late summer broods, petals
sunstruck for weeks.
The catalog offered seeds
like treats bound to my very edges:
wild geranium, slender dayflower
fragrant water lily.
I can almost smell next year’s
nymphea odorata.
Wind calls everybody’s name
including mine.
Mason Street 