My grandmother’s roses

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.

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