.
There’s still a tender scar
from the cutting of your grave
two months ago.
No matter, you would say.
You’ve flown into the springtime
where you’re planting bright impatiens
in the shady spots of trees
and hanging popcorn fuchsias
from the limbs of everywhere.
You see a million colors:
bearded iris, bright petunias
shades of greenery
puffs of petals
bobbing in the sun.
.
Back home I listen
to your favorite symphony.
The room fills with the scent of roses,
How’d you do that, Mom? I ask.
No matter, you would laugh.
.
© 2016 Betty Hayes Albright
.
(This is for my mom who passed away peacefully on March 3rd at the age of 98.)
.