A warm afternoon pulling weeds, new shepherd’s purse, mostly, around the strawberries, which also lose their colorful leaves. The world, so beautiful, from my knees. Fingertips stained, moist earth under my nails. I’m really quite flexible on most days. And I breathe. At a natural pace. You wouldn’t think I’m sixty. A hundred, maybe, or three hundred and three. That old tree in the forest you happen to meet, when you’re tired and think all trees are the same — and then, there I am, reveling in decay, right to the very heart of things. And I don’t have a name. And I don’t mean a thing. Except for the ones you’ve given me. And if I say love? Will you linger a while, or part from me? Will you stay, and be free?