A few faded blooms, fallen fruit, lost love.
This is what I learned from my mother.

~

Bruised apples, beneath the tree, turned
into sauce or, if lucky, pie. A snip of blue bell,
a reddened rose, a daisy with a broken stem.
These were the bouquets of my childhood.
 
Now that I am old, small vases wait
on the shelf above my sink for these offerings.
My time in the garden, often interrupted
by sprigs of flowers needing to be taken inside.
 
A holiday weekend and everyone is away—
my family at the lake; neighbors off camping.
I keep quiet watch along the courtyard,
grateful that all is well. I step onto my patio,
 
wash the tabletop of dust and ash; ready it
for visitors so I am not caught ungracious
should they come. It pleases me to do this.
I like knowing that elsewhere lies summer fun.
 
Here I calmly peel a basket of apples, stew
them up for sauce, then can golden jars for winter.
An old custom that does not fail to please,
does not yet escape my memory.


© by Judith Heron.
Used with the author's permission.