Francesca, Weeding the Garden

My daughter, all of six

and bursting with a Big Bang

sort of energy,

zigzags across our fenced backyard,

picking dandelions she holds

in her fist,

for an "I love you daddy" bouquet,

like the lofty ones

I snagged for her mother

before the tumors took her away,

their sunny heads of yellow

jutting freely from curling fingers,

my steady, sturdy voice

now a downcast, trembling shell,

saying they last a little longer

than flowers,

we'll wish you better

when they turn to spores.

Andreas Gripp

RF Image