E. E. J.

Her hands held bulbs as they were lowered into soil,

Small gifts of life ready to become...more.

In rows, protruding lines, she planted all spring.

Hyacinths, Daffodils, and Red and White Tulips.

Her legacy, these small perennials.

They bloom, thrive, die.

Each year passing like scattered autumn leaves.

And now her hands lie cold,

Her trowel has rusted away, 

Its edge lost to use.

But those flora bloom each year -

Persistent.

Now when they bloom, they bring Snowbells with them.

Lambs Ear's velvety leaves plume up,

Settling on the damp earth.

She doesn't watch these wondrous blooms press on,

Fighting wind and heavy rain.

And yet, they bloom.

Sunny days, those harsh rays of warmth -

The earth is never scorched in the shade of beechnut trees.

Thrive, as they do, in adverse environments.

In warming April days, we visit her new home -

Familiar with years of visitation.

Flowers, lovingly brought to rest with her.

Violets and daffodils,

A small cross laid against granite.

And though the years have dried my tears,

My heart still weeps -

For a woman who will never see her legacy continue to thrive.