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Photo by Flora Westbrook on Pexels.com

Who will be there to celebrate

my three score and ten?

When the March winds spin

will I still be virus hidden,

family seeded across the continent,

sprouting outside my garden?

Who will be there

beside my jumbled praises

congratulations for living

so much longer than my mother,

blames for choosing poorly,

pouring a glass of regret

in the pressing dark?

The question appears:

What was I doing

all those years?