Just Before the Fourth

The black-purple fists of the iris,

Which I watched grow on scores of April dog walks,

Have turned to dried tea bags,

Brittle scraps of panty hose

Feeding the seed below.

This is the first time I'm 65,

And time passes so quickly.

The uneven yards are a little difficult

To walk on, and I've used Duff's 35 pounds

As ballast on the steep embankments.

I only remember first dates—

Ferocious mornings in bed, afternoons shopping,

Dinners without booze. But

The middle years have fallen from my memory, collapsed

Onto themselves like a ruined cake—the center did not hold.

Now I say "I don't care" instead of the Lord's Prayer,

Or whatever all that was I repeated, kneeling

Below my grandmother's high bed, her beside me.

I can't memorize snatches of Beethoven anymore:

Only bits of movie dialog. I would like to have been

An actor: my excellent mimicry, my flawless perception

Of flawed personalities, my modest intellect absorbing

Quirks and grimaces instead of current events, delighting in

Not understanding. As if resentment were a muse—eyes closed,

Palms over my ears, I have memorized you. Never change.

I can't believe the fourth is nearly here already. I'm still

Enjoying spring. The iris came and went like the postman,

And the peonies are dropping their spears, little pink cocktail stirs

All over the ground; the full moons jostle for celebrity. Summer

Will bring its fruit, but can I beat the birds to it—before they fly south?