Stephen Harvey

A spring brought into being by the sound
of foxglove hand bells tolling in the garden
is now, in August, only to be found
in magazines forgotten in the lobby.
Coffee-ringed, their floral covers harden
as if someone, neglectful of her hobby,
forgot to water them. As I leaf through

Better Homes and Gardens, I picture you
at home among your flowers, nourishing
pink roses grown from cuttings of another,
the damask teacups, fine as china—art
you'll leave behind. I see you in them, mother,
resilient, cultivated, flourishing
while everything around you falls apart.