in the past there is a secret garden to which you
return, to which there is a returning, each time easier
than the last, like fungi bonding to algae, as bonded
as lichen, the noiselessness a noise itself, swollen
with water particles, wet air, poor drainage, coming
back isn't a choice, isn't the kind of reckless midnight
decision where you sit straight up in bed and leave
the house for weeks, age is a slow measured miserable
variable meditation on movement, your joints audible
as they pick a path through trailing fern stems, densely
packed fronds waving soft half-forgotten thoughts, private
words you do not need, you have your own, they are quite
enough, you swear their breathing sounds like wispy
starlings hopping high lines, you swear their breathing
is a reenactment of the sweet dreamless sleep
of your mother, here no one can interrupt the true
work of your life, a root system is further refined,
a restoration stronger than physical form, your hands
touching everything, a biotic undoing of dead cells,
episodes rewound