Memory’s Seed

There comes an April morning when dawn
effortlessly dispels the dark,
a fragrant sunrise like this that inspires
birds to wax poetic in song.

I did not truly grieve when we buried you
in a lifeless November ground,
but I do today to think you’ll never again
delight in such perfusion.

Still, even as fertile mud is the reward
waiting beneath the snow,
so too this sorrow sprouts the seed of
a memory I had forgotten.

Once again, it blooms in the vernal air:
you, five years past eighty,
on hands and knees, planting annuals
despite every infirmity.

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