Last Fruits

No one marvels at the beauty of the last
cherry blossoms on a branch.
The others gather on the ground or
in the birdbath where they were blown by spring wind.
Amid the dead and dying blossoms that still cling,
these stragglers bloom,
latecomers to the show.
The glorious pink drama at an end,
the tree continues on to the leafing work ahead,
blooms all but forgotten.

Like the cherry tree,
at the memorial service of an aged woman
the few remaining friends gather,
precious witnesses.
The mostly old women, like last fruits,
remember a life in full bloom.
She was sweet, they say, and loved her dogs.
Yet another one gone
from their widows group,
a stark reminder of mortality
that they really don’t need.

They have become commonplace,
these services,
and she will be missed.
The little group, kissing one another goodbye,
hold hands and purses
and vow to meet again next week.

As for me, old woman, it is not your sad final months
that l carry with me.
They live, certainly, in my regrets,
offspring of my grief.
No, it is not when you were angry and so afraid
that companions my days.
Though sometimes my nights.

It is yourself in your strong years
of glorious pink drama.
With your teaching
and your dogs, and your farm.
Your pioneer stock shining through.
Imperfect you were, yet perfectly human,
loving even so,
and always, your daughter.
Loving even so, and always, your daughter.