With our last breath,
your Nasturtium grows:
filling in spaces
climbing up fences ,
your fingers plotting it’s path…
You cared for it tenderly,
just as you did the weeds
and the gravel and the grasses,
and the places the doe would go ,
with her faun,
to feed on your flowers…
I often stand at the window
and dream of the apple tree,
rotten fruit between my toes
