Rewrite

Rewrite of Growth


Growth

Well I can see you now,
eyes closed and arms full
of flowers, still dripping dirt,
roots lolling around your fingers,
as I look out through the kitchen window.

You told me the names of the flowers once,
but I can never recall them,
and I suddenly have the urge to ask
you what they are,
because I don’t want to keep forgetting.

Your glasses have slid
down your nose just a bit,
and it makes you appear much older
(perhaps older than I’d like
to admit you are).
I can see your mouth open,
sighing with the strain of age,
as you stand to survey your work.

You take a breath, eyes gazing,
a sense of accomplishment draped
across your squinting eyes, and your half-open mouth.

I can see you now
lean the rake against the tree,
the sun dipping into the mountains behind you,
and I commit this image to memory, because I am terrified
that one day I’ll forget it.