I too am singing
and dying. No
As a child, the place I most felt at home:
my grandparent’s farm unfolded from the prairie.
Mornings, I drank coffee with them,
cream from the cow.
Decoration Day I picked peony and iris,
sold them to families
traveling to the cemetery.
Fifty cents a bunch or free to people
with no cash.
It was the Depression.
Fathers walked all night for work.
I remember fragrance, lilac most of all.