They call me Minnesota Blue. None of them
knows why. It may be for my pines or for the sage
that grows in the deep of the garden. As for me,
I don't care. These worn-out bones are weary
They feel the old tree calling me. None now
dwell upon the loves that once unhinged
me or the ills that all quick summers bring. They
keep me in shape. It used to be a long way to find
me, hidden as I stand. Now, all the paths are
clear and freshly cut. Not even the eager ones
will steal away.
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