grow in someone else’s garden,
her battered red leather books
dusty in a neighbor’s bookcase.
I have some of her pottery bowls
bought on a long-ago trip to Normandy:
despite their cracks and chips the colors
are still bright—egg-yolk yellow,
deep orange, and true blue.
How can I tell the world of you,
what you were really like:
how your yellow cake melted
on my tongue, how even slips
of plants would grow for you.
I believed you were a terrible flirt
when your glasses slid down your nose
and I saw the shine, glint, glitter
of your soft dark brown eyes.