The pale pink ones by the garage, the bush
deeply pruned by the next generation
who will soon call your house home.

Instead of the great haystack of shubbery,
it is now an artful bit of sculpture,
its perfect blossoms gazing west

into late February’s gentle sun.
I would’ve missed them had I not
been walking through the utility room,

carrying bags of your former belongings
to my car, when I felt you and Father
so close behind me, as if your slender fingers

rested lightly on my right shoulder,
his thicker ones on my left, whispering,
“Out there, honey—look out there.”

So I did, and we all lingered, admiring
the miracle of such beauty in winter,
just two days after the 68th anniversary

of your wedding, the sweet blooms
pulling me outside to study them closely,
their petals, I realized as I touched a few,

the same color as your wedding dress
still hanging in what I will always
think of as your house.