A Memory Now
My Colombian farm, nestled
in a savannah where egrets fly,
sold a month ago. A piece of me
sits there in that tall red flower
on a single stem. My mother’s
ashes in the field among the growing
yuca. Six a.m. coffee shared
with my husband, watching
the twittering birds on the ground.
We will no longer be there to wave
to farmers who pass by early morning
and again in evening.
Will the new owner appreciate what I loved most?
The three-sided terrace, pink and white blossoms
along the fence, frog songs at night, the seductive
scent of guava. Will he draw strength from the stalwart
mango trees, swaying coconut palms,
squash scurrying along the ground?
Will he notice the morphing shades of pink
on the exterior of the house as the sun
I think of these things in quiet
moments before sleep.