I’ll always remember
grainy concrete
under my toes,
checking the garden
for the chlorophyll blush
of newborn flowers,
perennials fighting
to return to us
as you helped me
lift the watering can
and told me when
I could stop.

Somewhere in my past
you’re still there
teaching me how
to keep flowers alive,
even as your body goes,
even as the tumors grow,
even as you teach me
how fallen petals
in their very last act
dance as they go
and caress the ground
that once cradled them
as a seed.


Speak to be heard.

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