A poem about me in which nothing is true
She’s humble; speaks little. Mousy they call her, when they notice her.
She’s happiest on her own. Never thinks twice, quite content.
Quick to praise and no regrets. She tends her garden, diligent, and
Basks in the slow growth, noticing each tendril reach out.
She’s tender but strong inside. If she can get through life without
A single accolade, it’ll be her greatest triumph, to have lived quietly,
Small footprint, leave no trace, the lightest touch. No children, no man.
She potters, she wants nothing more but to disappear, feather-light
And have the world turn as it was, and no one notice at all.
She turns the soil, plants the seeds, and revels in the way that —
Next season — it will all be done again, year after year,
Cycle everlasting. She sits on her porch come sunset, dog at her feet.
Watches the street go by, nowhere to be. Years stretch like taffy, endless.
She is 20, she is 60 — it doesn’t seem to matter. She is the same as she ever was.