Past the barn,

up the side of the hill where the sheep graze

along the stream that trickles over the stones

to the cemetery gate where tiger lilies grow

and the fireflies, carry out their tactical night games.

I view the house below like the gaggle of geese protecting the yard

and cherish my childhood visits.

I recall that day, in her kitchen of tranquility, Grandma,

fluently, with chamomile calm, stated her wishes for when she’d pass.

“I come to the garden alone.”

listening, as if she were weaving between the romance languages

at the Dorchester with the ladies for afternoon tea,

I, attempted a translation of her tea spoon prophecy.

Sitting, cradled in the spoon, unbalanced and tipped to one side,

perplexed, as that cohesive drop on the convex side rippled,

outward ebulliently to spurt over the rim into a pool of fear.

I, standing quietly, somber and statuesque,

had only a simple penny toss wish for her, or maybe me.

Saint Therese of Lisieux would leave a little flower in the garden.

Past the barn,

up the side of the hill where the sheep graze

along the dried stream of soothed stones

to the cemetery gate where tiger lilies grow

and the fireflies, carry out their tactical night games.

I will view the house below like the gaggle of geese that protect the yard

and cherish my childhood memories.