All summer the crows yelled at me from trees
in praise of the immaterial. Surly
I was by fall. The laundromat sign read:

"Re-grand opening." And the world did open,
garden notebooks filling with weeds—
meadow rue, lady's mantle, the first page

left blank for Elijah. Just in case. Though
the papers lamented the weapons of mass
destruction, as if destruction did not

occur to us one by one. Now passing
cars sing in warm rain, but not well, what with
their tin ears, petulant and off-kilter.

I wake up with a furrowed heart. I am
as cultivated as the delicate
smell of carrots thinned early. I can taste

my childhood. Look: a small figure dances
in the yard. No, look: it's me. No, I'm here
rehearsing the dance in memory, trying

to imagine an older woman's life.
Somehow I've come to feel such an untoward
affection for my younger self, I could

just cry. Instead, I thin carrots, hearing
crows, living carefully . . . as if I might
otherwise forget to wake, eat, breathe.