This is a metaphysical poem about my grandfather, Bump, working in his garden at the caboose, imagining his youngest daughter nearby.
What compelled this poem was a scene in my grandparents' living room. Out of nowhere Bump placed one hand on my shoulder and his other hand on my brother's shoulder. Then he began to cry because his youngest daughter, Anne, died at the age of thirty-nine. He stood with his large arthritic hands on our shoulders just nodding his head. It was summer vacation, three months removed from our mother's death in March. I didn't know what to do or say, so I just stood, slouching like a sloth. My grandfather's eyes, Bump's eyes, were pink and swollen; he did not speak. He just held his gaze at us as if he saw his daughter in our eyes.
Beyond The Bloom
It is an ancient step
to go to the place
where the gold sun resides
where flowers grow sublimely
like godly hymns
in the corner of his mind
he endures the heat of the day
calmly as if the spirit of dew
shimmers in glassy eyes
as his heart quiets
like the whispers
of a distant dream
touching time
blinking longingly
her lashes feel like
caterpillars in his hands
slinking slowly
along the contours
of a misty memory
when she appears
among the ticklish
primroses in full bloom