I still...

I still cry over her.

Empty palms and rosebushes. 

The day she left 

I clipped all the flowers in my mother’s garden back

and left them to rot 

in a bucket

on our front porch, a weary welcome mat.

Spring reminds me of her fingers and how grass grows,

chilled, without her warm breath.

s-emi-colon

Julia Hetta