i measure my worth
in deer so at ease they’ll eat kale from the garden, less than five meters from my door
by a home-cooked meal eaten together, while still hot
in heritage Jimson weed blooms, all lemony on summer nights
& harvested, unblemished squash on autumn afternoons
in brown bats, sighted overhead at dusk from the stoop
in thriving houseplants, all properly named and specifically watered
in clean sinks, sheets, floors and birdbaths
by pages read, no matter
by the number of rabbits who see me and then, still choose to ignore my presence
in folks, walking exhausted, or in rain or snow,, who accept my offer, climb into my truck with their groceries or booze and trust for a lift home
in miles walked with the dog, and in my stilled-patience as he endlessly interprets the “news” thoroughly with his nose,
in native prairie plants restored, by my own hand, New England asters, ironweed, sweetgrass, coneflower, have mercy,
in minutes spent on the phone with my son,
my golden boy.
the limineen | earthling, poet & crone 