Perennial

First spring rain and I can’t begin a line like this again

without remembering  you were here this time last year.

When I think of  being a mother, my mind goes blank

like a mountain. How little I know about things that grow

no matter what. I wanted to hold this illusion forever,

so each time grief came, I closed my eyes and let

sleep in. But Brother, what do you call a plant that lives

more than a couple of  years? Scars from a fryer on

your arms, and others I couldn’t question, held me

briefly and many times must have plucked me

from the ground. Everything I want you to know

you already know. There’s perennial, there’s infinite.

Then there’s your absence, showing up like a bird’s

call, or the pause between droplets on the ground.