My Garden

I made myself a wastrel
  an orphan of my choice

And severed all my family ties
  in search of my own voice

I left without once looking back
  the present straight ahead

The past redundant, future flawed
  to butter my own bread

The years have come with decades gone
  old memories buried deep

Of times when I was young and hurt
  to dream but not to sleep

New breezes blow, fair winds to call
  the children come and go

As here I sit with no regrets
  —my garden fully hoed

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2018)