It’s been over  
thirty-five years since  
I felt your motherly touch,  
and I no longer try to shape  
a garden of sorrow.  
Instead, I let the new grass flame,  
its green distinct from the old cold fire,  
whose embers tighten their ring  
with each passing year.  

I find joy in the crepe myrtles  
unfolding into white,  
and the masses of yellow blossoms  
nestled in low bushes  
lining my walk to the gravel path—  
the one leading from the woods  
to your lone grave.  

Grief is no longer larger  
than the heart of your memory,  
for around me blooms  
everything you left behind.  

I watch your granddaughter,  
small as your grave marker,  
wander past your woods  
to the open meadow beyond,  
the whiter flowers she calls  
her playthings.  

And I will follow,  
fall among those flowers,  
sink into the soft moss  
by the marsh—  
where her laughter carries echoes  
of your voice,  
where the petals hold the warmth  
of new hands.  
I will lie near the meadow’s edge,  
close to her,  
and closer still to you.