19 and two
you listen to their names
as you would a list
of
plants,
but refuse to write them down.
I don't want to remember, to look for them,
and find nothing.
Eight, ten years old -
school the nursery where we grow things,
and gardeners.
I did not sleep well.
I pot and prune, take cuttings.
The sea is still blue.
The ancient dog walks across her terrace
and forgets why she came to greet me,
turns, retreats.
A honeybee wanders among my flowers, high
in the sky, looking for sweetness.
