Took its damn time.
Thought the train had passed. Left me on the platform. Squinting down the tracks.
Turns out I'm a perennial.
Here to stay.
February is for lingering over seed catalogues. Dreaming of flowers.
Conjuring a garden in high August.
Cicadas buzzing in the heat. Rivulets of sweat running down your lower back. More fucking zucchini. Bottles clattering in the canner.
I haven't had a place for growing in too long.
Dahlias and hollyhocks—the old girls of the garden—in scarlet red and periwinkle.
Swaying at dusk in a breeze.
I had to give my birthdate at a medical appointment this week. The nurse looked at me and said, "no way."
I no longer push compliments away. When someone sees the special in me, I graciously accept.
It's all down to my parents—my mom's good genes and my dad's blue eyes.
I'm curious and enthusiastic by nature—two key ingredients in the recipe for youth.
Spending twenty years with young people helped. I have friends born in the 80s.
There are kids in their teens who like being with me. A darling little girl who thinks I'm the bee’s knees.
Aging is beautiful.
We don't say that out loud enough. For the young to know, they don't need to worry.
I'm still hot.
I'll leave you with that.
When you read this, I'll be watching Denzel Washington and eating popcorn in a dark movie theatre. Extra butter.
Happy birthday to me.
Smell the roses
Take some chances
Black history month. This woman's talent is way fucking bigger than 30 days.