And if you ask me
what it is to age,
I will tell you
what I heard from
snapdragon,
hard words
from such soft spaces:
It doesn’t matter what hour it is,
or what you name the day,
what number you assign to
years you have lived
or not. You are likely the same
as half a seed drop ago,
short-lived perennial,
velvet-tongued
as when you called yourself young—
though even then,
it was misnomer,
myth of the regrowing season,
time being what we imagine,
ourselves, premonition.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright August 24, 2024
Posted in Katherine's Coffeehouse
