Gardens of Roses

My grandmother visits me in the garden

as I cut dead limbs from the azalea

I can smell her soap and perfume

The love I once longed for

opens the pores on my arms

She knows there are roses

newly planted. The dirt turned over brown

wraps their roots in memoriam. In the hidden

chambers of my ears I hear her voice

calling “Leethie” and we smile

together through time