Garden Graves

To my surprise, 

there are still three Cardinal Climbers which have bloomed in the chill of mid-October;

their regal red trumpet petals open & held high toward the sky, 

they sound the smell of survival for remaining bird calls;

the sweet high pitched chirps & echoing ca-caws, the flowers which still bloom;

Cardinal Climbers, Calendula, Daisies, Cape Marigolds & Aztec Marigolds;

fill dropping temperatures with the aroma of life still blooming,

 in an atmosphere of forceful winds which carry the falling toward change;

I’ve read the Aztec Marigold is called the flower of the dead, 

in honor of the slaughtered Aztec People 

who used to harvest these delicate & vibrantly hued sacred blooms 

to adorn temples of worship;

now, it is used to decorate Mexican Graves;

I do not know much about the Ancient Aztecs, let alone my neighbors in Mexico;

but I do know death;

I know the decay of my father;

the first person who taught me how to dig a garden,

plant the seeds, water them, watch them grow;

18 years later, & I dug this garden, planted these seeds of Cardinal Climbers, Calendula, Daisies, Cape Marigolds & Aztec Marigolds, I’ve watched them grow;

I do know death, & because I know death, I know growth;

I see each day how the two are entangled together;

 carried by the rustle of wind shaking leaves off tree bones;

 the clicking of dried leaves skipping;

the frenetic wave of branches;

shakes awake my heart, which is equally yours;

my eyes open to the drift of clouds floating in the sea of sky like wisps of driftwood ghosts;

I contemplate the stairway to heaven Mom believes in; 

I contemplate the shapes of the clouds;

I feel you kiss my cheek as the wind brushes past;

the wind grows louder, your presence grows even more ephemeral;

leaves are plucked from tree bones & spiral in the wind like confetti

  celebrating the anniversary of your passing;

I do not celebrate your passing; I celebrate the realization that you are still here;

my eyes mesmerized, follow the flow of leaves, find the glow of several Forsythia sprigs still holding on to the bush branch which points up toward the sky like a gallant knight protecting this home;

protecting this sacred life; this sacred death; this sacred & ephemeral growth;

protecting the memory of my childhood garden, all that grew in that 4x4 plot of backyard; picking and planting seeds, overalls and work gloves, doing the hard work of making memories; & you, doing the hard work of making sure I knew the manifestation of a vision is a power I held in the palm of my eight-year-old hand, sharing snap peas and cucumbers with our neighbor who is now with you, pickling leftover harvest; 

I’ll pickle these memories if it means I can savor them forever in the palm of my eight-year-old self’s hand; 

the garden of my childhood home grew next to the Forsythia bush;

the garden of my home at 26 grows next to the Forsythia bush;

this bush, like a gallant knight, wears sprigs of armor which glow in the sunlight,

protecting the Cardinal Climbers, Calendula, Daisies, Cape Marigolds & Aztec Marigolds;

protecting the garden bed grave of fallen leaves, the antecedent of vitality for blooming to rise up toward your windblown kiss when it travels back to us in spring; 

leaves and seeds scattered like celebratory confetti of your eternal arrival;