PLATITUDES GROW WITH AGE
There is little left now of the world I knew.
Pale green walls match the tongues
of sage I planted in my first garden.
Salt-licked potatoes hold the pine
and fragrance of sage clipped fresh
from the garden this year.
Leave excuses soft and far behind.
The potatoes are done.
Boiled over in a pot of tears.
Sage is the wisdom
that comes from gardens
and some would say age.
—from Rattle #20, Winter 2003
