Goldenrod
Today
I didn’t bring flowers
to your grave.
It was the first time in
seven years I walked these
forsaken woodland paths,
thinking of who you’d be
today, without gathering
handfuls of white asters,
bluebells, winding vines of
honeysuckle, sprigs of
berry buds taught
and green, blood-red
leaves singed with
November frost, kneeling
to veil a barren altar
with a sacrifice of earth
and origin, bringing
death for death.
But today
I ran my fingers down
the stem of the goldenrod
and felt life shimmering,
whispering, life forgiven
and forgiving, and my hand
caressed the petals, your face,
there’s been enough death,
and I knelt, offering only
hands this time to this
tribute to life, and heard
sunlight whispering through
stone and skin, rising
from shrouded spring
to become goldenrod
dancing in the wind.
Today
I knew I would not
bring flowers again.
