I don't have a picture, because yesterday's wobbly study of a pair of old pumps didn't look that great, but I wrote this poem.
Dear knower of secrets and fates
Will it happen at dusk? Will I be
Sniffing the last Lily of the Valley?
Will it happen at dusk, while
Ringing the Solomon's Seal?
Today and yesterday and tomorrow
Everything I put in my mouth is fruit, seed, or yolk.
Blueberries, apples, broccoli and peas.
Will it happen? Tell me.
Breaking the stamen of a wasted tulip,
Curled under the maple tree,
Or will I be sleeping, tell me,
it's better if I can prepare, life
slipping from me by morning
as I stoop to grab socks from the bin?