Mother tends to blooms as she has done
for as long as I am able to recall.
She stands, supported by prosthetic knees,
the heat of August heavy on her brow.
I want to call her in, afraid the sun
will cause a stroke. I think of last year's fall,
how she lost her balance trimming trees.
I try to call her in, but by a row
of roses, she cannot quite hear or see.
I hurry down the potted back porch stairs,
past the plum-stained bench and phlox-filled tins.
Transfixed, one foot into eternity,
one foot upon the earth, she turns and grins,
her blue eyes brilliant and beyond my cares.