I collect them now, it seems. Like
sea-shells or old
thimbles. One for
Father. One for
Mother. Two for my sweet brothers.
Odd how little
they require of
me. Unlike the
ones they were sent in memory
of. No sudden
shrilling of the
phone. No harried
midnight flights. Only a little
water now and
then. Scant food and
light. See how I’ve
brought them all together here in
this shaded space
beyond the stairs.
Even when they
thirst, they summon me with nothing
more than a soft,
indifferent furl-
ing of their leaves.
~Cathy Smith Bowers
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