I named our children after the dead. Made offerings of flowers to our elders, too,
because this is how we did things.

In spring, when the ground softened,
I pressed impatiens into the dirt,

their tender roots, bits of dark soil hanging on strings.
Each story, atom, drifting seed, left at the feet of garden statuary.

Lined the garage of our first house with wild orange daylilies
in remembrance of my mother’s garden, and of her, of course—

her snow-busting crocuses, tulips, and hyacinths. Planted lilac bushes
so as not to forget the May birthdays, the bouquet of Mother’s Day.

Made marigold displays for summer picnic moons. Dug
for daffodil bulbs in fall, despite their rote promises. Because, well,

because on knees in gardens the elders haunt,
we learn so much—we learn how they did things.

I took my mother’s garden with us to the East, to keep in season, but couldn’t
take it farther, after trading bluebells and phlox for succulents,

for the poppies and eucalyptus of the West. I tend a Meyer lemon now.
My seasons are rain or not, and I do not miss the small deaths

of burning falls and freezing winters. What matters survives. Each Thanksgiving,
still forcing narcissus, the same soft surprise for windows on a new Christmas.

Here and there, the ground comes up green when the ground is ready.
I become the willow of my youth, who did not overthink things. I loved that.

The willow dropped her shawl each fall, teasing. She hid in snow and slush but
donned a bold green garment in spring. Her shoots, operatic.

Truths rooted in dirt: The ants return, here and everywhere, united against us.
Another season, another garter snake loses its skin, and nothing is lost.