for Beatrix
We once wrote letters in French
Ma chère grandmere
you told jokes and spun stories
of dancing in the halls
on Buckeye Lake
took me to Lute’s Casino
to watch the weathered men
play dominoes
baked bourbon balls
from your mother’s recipe.
“Beatrix Larrick,” you announce
to the woman in a pink dress
only you can see.
I sit in my garden,
on the other coast
watching the last blossoms
of daylilies
curl toward the sun
nearby phlox flaunts
her pink petals. They float
above brown leaves curling
with too many weeks of no rain.
And you, too, fade
deserting the food and drink
that keep your wet soul
anchored in its body.
Overhead a tree swallow
wheels in the blue sky.
I know better
than to wish for rain.
16 July 2012
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