Sunday, January 6, 2019
The Late Years Ten
My garden okra August 2011 after Hurricane Irene.
The Late Years Ten January 6, 2019
I have to measure everything I do,
take rests between chores, quit my
writing work early, be careful not to
exhaust myself, or my heart will race,
my nose will bleed. If I’ll miss lunch,
I take a snack. And here is January.
I long for my garden, and it’s time
to order seeds. Maybe I can plant peas.
Day by day, twenty minutes a day,
pull out the weeds, untangle them
from the sign-holders I propped the
peas with; cut the strings that held up
the tomato cages. Fix the gate so it closes
tightly; rescue the thyme and oregano,
if they’re still there, and the self-heal.
Probably the soil is still fertile if I can
get down to it. Add some compost
and feather meal, some wood ashes
from the stove. I think my days would
balance better. Most of the time I hold
my own, do my inside chores, sleep
well, make headway, hour by hour on
my new book about aging. What can
an old woman do? If I could have
garden peas and beets, tomatoes, beans,
and okra to eat, I’d feel rich again.
My twenty minutes a day might make
a miracle. Worth trying.