Spring mornings I like to step outside,
look up at the trellis over the driveway,
admire the lavender clusters of wisteria
hanging like ornaments of spring,
fleeting as they are.

The delicate petals have fallen
on the windshield of my late mother’s car,
the tiny cups gleaming like bleached
shell fragments on dark sand.

I attempt to capture the image on the device
in my pocket, catching myself in the reflection,
along with leaves above that can no longer
restrain themselves, enthusiastically
joining blossoms that, within days,
will become memory.

As does spring every year.
As do the reflections of those
no longer embodied
shining up at me.

And as I close my eyes, inhaling deeply,
their echoes resonate into this breath,
and the next, and the next.