Hyacinth
This is not a poem about
chokeberry weeds
or brambles
that trip up your walk.
Or black bracken
that pools in the sea.
Or snowflurries,
the white breath of snow.
This poem is about
the scent of hyacinth
on a spring evening
and finches
that pull the sunlight
into their breasts
before they nestle down
to sleep.
**
First Symphony
The music pours
into me,
rich wine
into an empty
glass.
I close my eyes,
filled.
**
Ruth and the Flower Garden
Kneeling in my garden
I cut Dutch Iris, jonquil, and tulips,
gather them in my hands.
I’m bringing them to my daughter
to celebrate the arrival of my first grandchild.
The baby is named for me, Ruth,
the name passed down from my grandmother.
I press my nose deep into the bouquet
to inhale the new life of spring.
Grandma knelt in her garden
just this way,
brushing the loose soil off her knees
when she stood up
with flowers in her hands.
I look at the burst of pinks, yellows, and purples
and imagine seeing
the face of my granddaughter
for the first time.
Will she love flowers?
Will her favorite color be yellow, too?
