This morning if I stop to fold the Pendleton
wool blankets from where I fell asleep
on the couch, reading interviews
with poet Li-Young Lee,
I'll miss the falling of the pink
petals, and not indulge
in how the blossoms drift down,
wander far from the source,
accumulate like sachet in empty drawers,
and tint the dark earth,
this yard with map coordinates, a place,
my spot, our home and terra firma, for now,
where my youngest, I imagine before moving in,
will ride her trike, dig worms, lift the cover
over beetles, expose sow bugs to the rain;
also frame of reference for eldest granddaughter
dancing to the Irish broadcast on Sunday afternoons
--I could go on: hammock strung between trees,
eagles overhead, the creek tumbling toward the future
down the ravine, where, perhaps, one day, ashes
will scatter in the wind to scant words of remembrance
and echo like birdsong in these branches.
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