A Letter

Dear Mother,

Since you've gone, your plot is covered
with parched grass and silk
flowers the florist delivers for no one–

I thought someone should tell you
about your precious pecan trees
that they have all survived, except
the one that was never strong.
In the end, it withered away
under your efforts to straighten
its crooked trunk and the weight
of that black thumb.

All the trees are healthy now, glorious
in fact, tall and broad, the roses delightful,
your azaleas glossy and dark green at last,
and Father has planted new hedges
all about his house for the new wife,
the dense kind with tiny green leaves
like some Irish castle in a storybook.

And this will come as no surprise,
still just that crooked tree,
the one that never could grow straight,
heart shattered and soul lost
under that whithering gaze so much
so even my true love does not want me

and I whither away like the grass
that embraces what is left of you.
Only one last thought from me–

I do hope they have gardeners
where you are and nice lawn chairs,
and most of all I hope for you
that they have no wayward things.