Such a cluster of small blue flowers would remember
to look both ways before crossing to the next memory.
The word forget is as absent-minded as ever.

I am preoccupied: Is the key under the mat for my daughter?
Did we plant enough tulip bulbs for a risen spring?
Such a cluster of small blue flowers would remember

debris accumulates until the next thaw braces for disaster.
All is swept under the Persian rug and I lift it gently
while thinking the word forget is as absent-minded as ever.

In this house, rows of warp and weft swirl into squared corners
with echoes floral burgundy and teal repeating.
Such a cluster of small blue flowers would remember

why she forgot her divorce from my brother,
asking to be buried next to him in our rectangular lineage,
but the word forget is as absent-minded as ever.

The gypsy family brings bouquets, picnics with their dead father.
I visit mom, dad, brother, place my prayer deliberately.
Such a cluster of  small blue flowers would remember
that the word forget is as absent-minded as ever.
                        

Too much of the soil beside my yellow house		
must be made of hardened clay.
I dream of rich tilled dirt with ample yields –
kale, tomatoes, and tiger lilies.
Sadly, despite all my garden efforts, 
I’m growing puny rhubarb plants.
Back home, my father grew his sour stalks
closest to our Spokane alley.
Strong, broad leafed, they grew beside trash cans	.
Thick sticks, fan spread, grasshopper haven.
My mother scrubbed and cut and chopped, 
then cooked them all in water to make a slurry.
One box of strawberry Jell-O cut the sour
to make a sauce as red as roses.
For relief of mini-griefs I spooned
this sweet atop vanilla ice cream. 
Next year, I’ll deepen my raised beds 
and stir in mulch with wild abandon.
I still can’t fathom paying cash for what      
my father grew beside the trash.