Walking in the Garden: A Poem

For Nana

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Your hands—spotless,

never dirt-clad—

plucked yellow daisies and

set them in a jar

for my coming.

Even when I sliced

the petal-skin of your hand—

how the blood bloomed—

you laughed

and kissed my head.

I’d trod your Eden

armed with scissors

among sunflowers,

bold chrysanthemums,

dahlias wide and cool,

pink roses

tended well

in summer’s flush.

Everything you touched

opened itself to azure sky

and bowed to your

quiet radiance.

Now, your goodness is

a well-made bouquet,

displayed in bright raiment—

your head tilts

to the Sun and meets it.