My Garden

I made myself a wastrel

 an orphan of my choice

 

And severed all my family ties

 in search of my own voice

 

I left without once looking back

 the present straight ahead

 

The past redundant, future flawed

 to butter my own bread

 

The years have come with decades gone

 old memories buried deep

 

Of times when I was young and hurt

 to dream but not to sleep

 

New breezes blow, fair winds to call

 the children come and go

 

As here I sit with no regrets

  —my garden fully hoed

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2018)

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