Michele Sharpe

AGING IN PLACE

My future snaps like a rusted latch
and hasp. I live happily severed after.

I put my restlessness on the table and go
outdoors to ruminate with a sixty-year-old

water oak. Her heart rot has her dropping
limbs. Smoke from far away fires

pearls above our tree line. I bow
to my favorite slash pine and pour

my chronic humming down her roots,
then sit to listen. A new message

replies, saying Relax, you can
give up on being healed.