For Nana
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.