But all this has thrust up again right in front
of my eyes and all around, surprising me year
after year, as if some cheeky myth could sprout
from dust and dung. And there is it, crawling with ants
and insects, sucked at by hummingbirds, dug up
by vole and chipmunk, its bright fragrant flesh
unveiled each dawn as if it were waiting
for someone, some godling who will love it like
self-love, turn it into him or herself for us to
admire and draw from, a story of life without end.
But I’m getting old, and don’t believe such stories.
Today I missed everyone and everything.
I missed too much to count, and it hurt.
When I tried to count, things seemed to shake free
of me like leaves and blow away. Now there’s
some dark figure down there, not too far off
at the bottom of the garden waving to me,
beckoning me down. I won’t wave back, hoping
he’s mistaken me for someone else.
I’ll turn away.