for Merry Stoll
After I learn that she died,
I go to the garden, grateful
that there are petunias,
cosmos and snapdragons
to plant. Salvia, pansies, and
verbena that will drape its purple
kindness down the sides
of the planter. I don’t
put on my gloves. I let my hands
enter the soil and feel
how good the earth is.
This is how I best remember her,
with a trowel or a scissors in her hand,
ready to transplant, to trim,
to harvest the blooms
into a bouquet for the altar
or table. Flowers hung
in her garage to dry. Flowers
in her bathrooms, her dining room,
her kitchen. It came easy to her,
which stem to place where.
Which color, which ribbon,
which grass, which vase.
She left beauty all over the place.
Once she sat with me
on her green and white couch,
and let me read her poems,
a whole book of them.
We sat there for hours,
and she listened and laughed
at Shel Silverstein’s antics,
and as I read, I felt like a flower,
like something just at the edge
of bloom. Her attention
made me beautiful.
Today, the garden is just starting
to find itself after winter. I cannot help
but weep into the holes I have dug.
It is tender, this moment, and fragile
this life. I feel like making wild pledges—
to honor her legacy—to find
and share beauty everywhere I go.
I feel determined to keep my word.
