This year's dandelions have been mown down
by the summer heat. Last year's
annuals lie underground, turning
into dark folds of soil.
A huge crowd attended Mike's service.
There were more flowers than you'd find
in a greenhouse. My husband
wanted to be cremated
and his ashes strewn
across the compost heap
in back. He loved his garden.
It's been five years
seven months since Mike passed.
I push my hands into the dirt,
massaging it as if it
were Mike's shoulders.
For fifty years we soaked in the sun
like primroses.
