by Iris Litt
/ Poetry /
It tried to die with my mother
whether from neglect or empathy
we’ll never know. My son
the gardener and pessimist
said he’d try his best
but don’t hope too hard
then, sonlike, left
this coast for the other
and left the plant to me.
Well, maybe it knew
it was still among family
and grew and grew and grew
summered on the patio
wintered on the sill
till it is almost a tree
like trees that grow from graves
its roots in my mother’s life
its future, me.