The Late Years Seventeen

Judy's chickens who ran away waiting on her back porch to get back in. The one in front is Isabelle or Izzy, also called Rogue One, an expert escapist even with her wings clipped.

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The Late Years Seventeen  February 24, 2019

Hardly anything dismays a daffodil.
Crowds of them are shining in my
gardens, some stalks bent so the
blooms touch the ground, others are
as upright and cheerful as usual.
It has rained for days, the ground
soggy, mud on our shoes and on
the dogs’ feet; the hens wet, their
wings unfluffed. They gather at
the top of their “room” to watch
birds or dogs or any entertainment
that keeps them dry. I read old
diaries and think about my life.
Could it be that in my eighties
I still possess innocence of heart? I
never did try for more than who
I am, what I was. I fought and got
labeled a trouble-maker. Some few
saw deeper, saw the reality behind
the laughter and the silences. Who 
else would I be? The daffodils do
it every year, despite weeds and
other debris in their near neighborhood,

so why not me?