In my mother’s garden, the forsythia
burns gold but is never consumed.
I’ve walked past it for forty years,
barefoot on grass then gravel then concrete,
never thinking to remove my shoes.
When the hospice nurse calls at midnight
to say it’s time, I drive through darkness
lit only by stoplights and gas stations.
The world divides into before and after
with ruthless efficiency.
In her room, machines are silent now.
Her breath, shallow as autumn puddles,
moves like small birds between branches.
I hold her hand, this hand that once
held mine at every street crossing.
