Grandma has no grave
In my house.
Ashes are her remains
Underneath the ground.
I saw it, once, a hand-sized metal disk
With holes as big as a one-pence coin
For plastic flowers of various faded colours and dull varieties
By which to shed a tear and moan
That what little she had is now overgrown.
Between you and me, though, she's buried somewhere deep
In Albox, Spain, in a citrus heat
Where her tree grows steady, bearing good fruit
Year after year blooming flowers of white
Strong white, bright white
All the same kind.
Her tree puts forth oranges of sweetness and pride
Not dimmed in all this time since the moment she died,
Though she's been moved, once or twice,
Her flowers still bloom
Sweet, strong, and bright.