Five plants in, her back gives out, anIll omen, given her age. ThisVery thing, her father had predicted;Even said: you will lose interest in
Planting, in harvesting, in putting up.Lately she sees what he meant: politicsAnd global change have consumed her;Now she sits much more, immobilized byThings she can only warn of, not repair.She feels some obligation to the young
In all countries, even of peoples she willNever meet. Some tell her it's not
Her business if some foreign child drowns.Even were that so, she would still feel it,Rummage in her purse, send something.
Back in her garden, unfinished flatsAnd pots of spring greens wonder where she is.Could she have died at last, that old thing,Killed by her curiosity, and left their roots
Groping for water, circling roundIn dark commercial soil? The Very weeds miss her companionable warfare.Even the birds and squirrels, not chasedShe has let down; they lose their edge.
Out in the mailbox, seed catalogs pile up.Under the house, leaks spring.This is how it is. Life moves on.