I’m a gatherer of growing seasons 

From planter’s sun to harvest’s rain. 

All, with their fallen leaves and early blooms 

Placing the cycles inside form and thought. 

So much I’ve seen, so much I’ve been 

And like you, I can’t stop looking. 

My eyes are road weary wise 

Yet infinitely the infant of curiosity. 

My voice is tuned to the key of  

Movement, which I mimic, measured in the 

Shake, rattle, & roll of the ground…having found 

A lifetime of elixirs, fixtures, and pictures  

Right underneath my feet, on this dusty dirtball 

Dancefloor, Earth…where with pants and skirts 

I bowed, curtsied, laughed, and danced 

The Twist, the Mashed Potato, the Boogaloo 

The Shing-a-ling, while planting sprouts 

That grow strong, green, confident. 

Their stems bending toward the sun. 

Why? Because it’s a hell of a lot of fun. 

Though it’s true someday I’ll be dry stalks 

Matter, to build nests for jays as well as hawks. 

And upon those days, my limbs may appear hollow 

Still, I will dance with toenails bent and yellowed 

Looking forward to another coming of spring 

Even if new branches, like love, it refuses to bring