Sending Flowers to My Grandmother

The "Flame of Holland" bulbs I'd meant
for her front walk are ruined now.
I dawdled, autumn came and went;
to bury them felt wrong somehow.

The Chaco Indians, I've read,
would smash clay pots as offerings,
furnishing houses of the dead
with the souls of ruined things.

Rose Kelleher

If you've any comments on this poem, Rose Kelleher would be pleased to hear from you.