I come with flowers
every first day of the month
when spring allows, when summer welcomes,
when fall offers final blooms
dark yellow, orange, red.
Two stones—one larger,
the other like a polished bowl
set upside down on the grave.
Only our family knows
why it carries no name.
Arabella graces the one above
that seems to hover, watching.
I was sixteen when she died
and took her baby with her.
No husband, no man to mourn
but my father in his weeping.
She was my only sister.
When I come I kneel and set
the blossoms carefully.
Winters I don’t dare the walk
but I like to think of snowflakes falling,
each a perfect silent word of prayer.
