(for Lisa Morgan and Stuart Morgan)

The day I came to your mother’s house
to gather donate-ables you were kindly
giving to a woman needing pots and pans,

spatulas and big stirring spoons,
you had snipped a rose from her garden,
a perfect blushing pink.

And there it sat on the counter
by the sink, for the one who
no longer stands there looking

into the back yard that you both
keep tidy in her memory. I am
always touched by the ways

we honor our companion spirits,
how we bring them into what
were once their spaces, now ours.

Because, of course, there she is
in those prettily unfurled petals.
And yes, the rose will die, but

the scent will linger, as we say,
nothing left but the love,
which turns out to be everything.

•••

In memory of Gaynor Stuckert Morgan,
Sept. 27, 1929–April 20, 2023