Seph
After she's packed, Dee gives me two cacti,
books, coffee, a framed degree, her fourth.
Coaxes this last gift, green blades gleaming,
dormant orchids in black pots, all leaf.
Eggshells a cracked mosaic. The whites shine.
'Flowers in spring. They like shade'‚ Dee said,
gives me manure, blind to my panic.
Hands make their faltering awkward grab.
'I won't kill these' my hollow mantra.
Acknowledgement: Dakota House Journal
