Breadcrumb #660

MEGAN GRIFFITH

Somewhere, over the rainbow,
in the flowerbeds 
in front of my childhood home,
there’s a place where I love my mom
the way she deserves.
Her gentle hands, roughened with dirt,
will pull the weeds
to protect her daisies and hydrangeas
and insatiable wild rose,
and in this place, I won’t weep over the dandelions
as I pile them into an old plastic bag, 
roots snapped and dazzling yellow faces drooping.
I won’t stand behind her, mouth closed,
mind shouting 
about the changing color of the deep earth
exposed by her insistent pull 
can’t you see it drying up?
don’t you see how sensitive it is
to the July sun?
In this place, instead,
I will notice the sunburn on the back of her neck.

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