Lavender
For Victoria Anne
I’m uncomfortable this morning, a little afraid
for you. You posted a field of lavenders
on Facebook, they were waving in the wind.
It felt to me like a church in a field,
a field saluting, a straitened, sad salute.
You wrote, as you always do at this time of year
—Miss you Deb—
It was like bright flames
burning a grand house
on the darkest of all nights.
But really, it was all there: those flowers in the wind,
you, a vase about to break, and
if you did break, me picking up the broken pieces,
and me, unable to put the pieces back together,
so I hold them in my two hands and they cut
my palms so the clear, dear glass turns maroon
as if it had been holding a fine red wine.
Who brings this bad news each year?
A box on paper? A number in a box?
In the depths of your fine crystal spirit
you have a box full of memories,
a few stalks of dried lavender glued to the top,
like a decoration on an old-fashioned potpourri box.
I can see you with those crystal tears
running down your cheeks, so many
they fall to the ground, like spilt milk.
How does anyone pick up spilt milk
off the old carpet at your feet?
I’m going to get some lavender,
maybe that’ll soak it up.
I’ll pick up the vase that’s so strong it didn’t break,
and put the precious, damp lavender in it.
Then maybe we can have a glass of fine red wine,
in remembrance of all that once was,
and to celebrate all that still is.
