A poem about me in which nothing is true

She’s humble; speaks little. Mousy they call her, when they notice her.
She’s hap­piest on her own. Never thinks twice, quite con­tent.
Quick to praise and no regrets. She tends her garden, dili­gent, and
Basks in the slow growth, noti­cing each tendril reach out.
She’s tender but strong inside. If she can get through life without
A single accolade, it’ll be her greatest tri­umph, to have lived quietly,
Small foot­print, leave no trace, the lightest touch. No chil­dren, no man.
She pot­ters, she wants nothing more but to dis­ap­pear, feather-light
And have the world turn as it was, and no one notice at all.
She turns the soil, plants the seeds, and revels in the way that —
Next season — it will all be done again, year after year,
Cycle ever­lasting. She sits on her porch come sunset, dog at her feet.
Watches the street go by, nowhere to be. Years stretch like taffy, end­less.
She is 20, she is 60 — it doesn’t seem to matter. She is the same as she ever was.