When I Turned Sixty
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I asked the artist to sketch the woodland lily
with three solitary petals for my new tattoo—
not loud and cartoon-like, but with reverence,
the way Margaret Roscoe elegantly painted
flowers early in the nineteenth century.
She would understand.
Years ago, when Scott and I traveled north
to begin again—steady but unsure—
I walked forests just beyond the kitchen door
and fondly remember the first morning
Trillium whispered,
Look here. See me? You’re home.
