My Garden

I made myself a wastrel an orphan of my choice And severed all my family ties in search of my own voice I left without once looking back the present straight ahead The past redundant, future flawed to butter my own bread The years have come with decades gone old memories buried deep Of times when I was young and hurt to dream but not to sleep New breezes blow, fair winds to call the children come and go As here I sit with no regrets —my garden fully hoed (Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2018)