Manana's Garden

Manana's Garden
exists in flashes of her mind:
it blooms in the bite
of peach
warmed by Sicilian sun
furry skin against her palate
juices drip onto
translucent flesh of her hand
caught in the
thin circle of gold
wedding band
too large now
for her hand.

We read like tea leaves
the remains of her cup:
did she drink all the
tea this morning
then she must feel better
we prognosticate
finding forget-me-knots
in the melody of bees
that catch her eye,
getting drunk on
lusty grape pollen
admist the arbor vines

Her mind peeled
away
like the layers of mica
we mined from the
driveway stones
and hoarded in our
pockets
until, finally, nothing
was left
but barren rock.

I keep hydrangea blossoms
heady blue
in her white irontstone pitchers
and rest my face in them
and think of her bosom
and the lunaria
she used to dry
and give us as coins
for the realm of childhood.