I remember when she picked the poppies in the garden
and that photo was snapped on a summer afternoon.
A short time later, she became ill and was never the same
person again. But there, in that photo, she smiles while
picking poppies and that day becomes engraved in our memories.
I remember reading that she hated hydrangeas.
Someone gave her a handful of purple blooms and she
threw them down on the stage because of her deep aversion.
Regardless of money or fame, I would never trade places
with a person who could hate hydrangeas.
The rain falls with pounding determination.
Relentless in its pressuring tempo,
it persists for days—
bringing thick, foggy mornings that make
the yellow irises stand out like lanterns in the mist.
All those cold, grey months you slept so soundly in the frigid
silence of snow. I saw you in my day dreams and you are even
more stunning than I remembered.