I begin with a photo of a daughter, lost,
inking in Black-Eyed Susans
the pink of wild Geraniums,
brushing Dahlias in lavender hues
with the precision of a mother’s touch,
their steadfast desire to blossom
when nothing else in the garden will.
I work from memory
when the colors can’t be
bright enough to capture
the arc of her smile or
the bruise in the place
where my heart sits,
discolored and heavy with grief.
I don’t shade in the stems
at the bottom of the page
to seed the roots of friendship
and encourage the whisper of buds
to bloom into the next chapter—
the one that starts after losing a daughter.