The Thing About Flowers

She's been stammering
lately, I tell her jokes
and she stares
as she does at the television
these days it looks like the light is gone.
Twice misspoken
in one sentence,
her words used to stretch
across the horizon
and now they fall at her feet,
and she stumbles.

On warm Sundays
she is on her knees
in the dirt.
I watched her once out the window
caressing the leaves
her distressed Japanese maple
wilting like me,
she pruned the branches
of her azalea bush
like she was trying
to shape my disasters,
trim them so that it would grow
strong and bloom
into a full life.
Sometimes I see my face
in the poms of her fragrant lilacs.

I wonder if her memories rise to the surface
behind her bright green eyes,
or if they flounder on the rocks.

She used to be so powerful.
She waged all out war
on life
and won, but once she broke her toe
and I saw her sniffle.
I saw her weep
coming back from her father's hospital room;
it had spread all over.
All I could do
was fumble an I'm sorry,
just stare like she does now.

That's the thing about flowers:
you don't speak to nurture,
their strength is not fortified by words.
She can mumble and stutter
to their petals,
she can cut away their sorrow.