My friend laments her passing years
As lost, as nothing now. But wait,
Dear one, I disagreed, they’re there;
Just out of sight and sound, secured,
Waiting behind memories door.
You probably walked past them this morning
Admiring your gardens offerings. Your cheek
Just graced their hiding place as you sniffed,
Then snapped malingering blooms. They’re there,
Passed buddleias purple cones, above
Rudbeckias stylized suns, behind
Hollyhocks rust/blotched leaves.
Don’t be afraid; slip your slender hand
Up to your thin, white wrist into the mass
And turn like a key.
Belated Words 
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