What I Remember


It’s hot and humid.  We are all alone
out here, in back, to garden for an hour.
Somewhere, far off, I hear a mower’s drone
and catch the fragrance of a distant flower.

Too bad our marigolds don’t smell as sweet.
I get down on my hands and knees to press
my nose into the flowers at your feet.
And, looking up, I see your swirling dress.

Did I think things would always be like this— 
a yard, a house, some grass, a place to play— 
a summer afternoon, a mother’s kiss— 
or did I know it all would fade away?

Before you knelt to plant those marigolds,
I wound myself into your dress’s folds.