There was an old house I loved, a house of many doors,
where my late art bloomed in the hardy place that taught
my heart to heal; to breathe deep again in the fresh cold
air of pointed fir, woodsmoke and sea.
The siren song of grandchildren was strong, so in winter
we packed up the house, dismantled, gave away our
big wooden bed, the wing chairs, put the cat in his carrier.
Snow on our boots, we crunched to our loaded car; then
sad but resolute, drove to I95, as the house receded.
We were not there to witness the spring riot of hostas,
hyacinths, intrepid daffodils. Only in memory could we keep
the rose bushes that we chose one by one from the rose farm
with the eccentric owner; like the Liebersalver (“love magic”)
a hybrid bush with blooms so perfect they hardly looked real,
that brought us an exquisite late blooming rose in November.
From away, l mourn the home I loved, but my grandchildren
are my flowers now, my new blooms.
