Most Days I Want to Live

Not all days. But most days

I do. Most days the garden's

almost enough: little pink flowers

on the sage, even though

the man said we couldn't eat

it. Not this kind. And I said,

Then, gosh. What's the point?

The flowers themselves,

I suppose. The rain came

and then the hail came and my love

brought them in. Even tipped

over they look optimistic.

I know it's too late to envy

the flowers. That century's

over and done. And hope?

That's a jinx. But I did set them

right. I patted them a little.

And prayed for myself, which

is embarrassing to admit

in this day and age. But I did it.

Because no one was looking

or listening anyway.