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.