THINKING OF MY MOTHER ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER DEATH
I search her face across a hemisphere,
embark on one more journey:
Will you come?
She's ready with the thermos,
wearing her brown gardening-shoes,
her glasses slipping forward on her nose.
Says she's been planting dahlias
to make a summer show,
a new display for the place
she calls her Park.
Over the cloudbank it's candescent,
close. I dare her to keep up with me.
She shuffles answers
to fit my questions. We float,
in the glide of it.