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, in heat, rain, cold or snow, who accept my offer, and climb into my truck with their groceries or booze — 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 all the mercy,

in minutes spent on the phone with my son,
my golden boy. across two time zones

in bluebirds who sing on my bedroom windowsill — especially on my birthday

in knowing how the Moon will present this evening before She rises

in poems or songs written by, for, — or about, me

in counting acorns from the sapling swamp white oak i planted, knowing one day, that happily, i won’t be able to count them all

in a porcelain plate of at least 6 different kinds of freshly-cut fruit

in hummingbirds, monarchs, hummingbirds, monarchs, and hummingbirds who visit to feed, rest or cocoon

in vibing unabashedly
to music playing loudly
in the barn, around the fire, in the car

in frogs perched on the back porch light, and toads spotted and side-stepped on the sidewalk in the dark

in trust placed in me.

in Duchenne smiles from friends and strangers, but especially strangers, and in the intense, knowing look from babies anywhere, but especially in an aisle or check-out line at any Walmart

by how long i kept the christmas tree – a fir, a spruce, or a pine – hydrating and alive, far moreso than any dozen long-stemmed red roses on Valentines Day

by the crows that come back again and again, recognizing my face, voice and my reliable aluminum feed pail / we, counting on one another’s presence

by a batch of perfectly home-brewed and bottled just-right, sweet tea

in spying even one — snake, turtle or heron all year long

and,

by love,

by love,

by love.

and that, is why,

for a while, at least,

i will feel worthless
worth, less
less worth

and,

less.