Reunion

by Pam Crow

You have pulled me away
from my desk, past stacks of words,
to see the first shoots of lily and iris
leaping from the soft earth
in this half season of a mild winter.

I sometimes long for blind roots
threading down to what is familiar
but I kiss the curve of your collarbone
and follow you out into the wind.

These sturdy stems mutter of lost sleep
and the uncertain dream they are in
but fill with light in every cell, and the deep
remembering of spring. I open my arms to share
their reunion with the air.

Memorial Garden

by Pam Crow

You worship in the dirt,
on your knees with a trowel
in your hand. You push
seeds into the earth, slowly,
the way hard truths push
into our hearts, take root there,
pressing the walls larger
to let more light in.

You tell me you don't know
any God, but what of this
conversation of flowers?
Bee Balm, Love in the Mist
whisper to lavender and pansies
yearly we return.

Here, too, is what we wish
we could control: aphids black
on the slender necks of roses,
silver gleams where slugs pass
munching the sweetest stems
right down to the ground.

When so many are gone
I think this is the place to be--
dividing, planting,
making room.