Weed whipping isn’t on
The Fitbit list.
It doesn’t seem to
Fit the genteel
Title of ‘gardening’.
Missing also is losing
A mother, or daughter,
Or brother,
The rug-pulled-out-from-under-me
Exhaustion of loss.
What becomes of the living
That doesn’t fit the list
Of ‘work outs’ logged
Or tracked,
Tallied and measured?
Being young allows us
To box almost everything,
The curve balls of life
Only addling those
Of advancing age
And experience.
Keep moving and
Dancing,
The world around you
Will adapt or not,
We will be
Steadfast.
Categories: Poetry