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

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