Sometimes I write
whatever comes to my head
So as to not give
the impression of my dying
or it even in my thinking
It flowed from the darkness
of shadows and mist
Next week another birthday
Boy am I ever aging
And so much on my bucket list
Gardening in spongy pastures
Pruning on wobble ladders
The sun has begun to show it visions
of a tiny garden snake looming in the shadows