Now that I've grown old
can I sprout new leaves,
sweet berries, glossy feathers?

I don't need more toes
or another hand, but
with a third eye I could see

a past life in a stone hut
on the coast of Dingle where
I could harvest my word hoard,

plant music in the space
between my liver and lungs,
let moss cover a stony heart,

a velvet coverlet disguising
a flower bed of current fears.