Two months ago my grandma's spirit Started leaving her body She hadn't passed yet but She had no use for this realm anymore I wondered where spirits go And who would tell me I'm wonderful And beautiful and perfect Once she was gone
Two months ago my mother and I Planted morning glories On our old rusted lightpost "They never grow for me," she said "Every year I try and they just never latch on, never grow how they're supposed to" She glanced at me as if she wasn't talking about flowers anymore "If they bloom I will kiss you with joy"
Nearly always, I do not feel wonderful Or beautiful or perfect But as time passed and I questioned Why we all try Just to suffer and die In your home, in your hell After twenty, thirty, or eighty years I realized that the vines had taken over the post, had overgrown the broken lightbulb The twisted vines full of buds Had reached over 7 feet
My grandma's hands could grow any flower on this planet But she was not a flower She was not delicate She did not need to be coddled She is the weeds that you yank out every weekend just to grow back She is a mighty cactus in Arizona
She is the morning glories in my front lawn, Living by the earth instead of it's seasons She could have been a redwood Or a rare plant, remotely in Tahiti Protected, strong, beautiful She is the morning glories on my front lawn to remind me "So can you"