The Alchemy of Happiness. Marilyn Bowering

water, but a memory—

       about her son and daughter picking flowers.

      I stood in a bowl of sand with seeds scattered among stones,

      mountains on the far rim;

      my hands searched the grains,

      but change brought tears—and so the watered seeds awakened

      until the grey alluvia bloomed,

      grass hid the prairie in wind.

      I gathered the hum of shortened shadows,

      the petal’s face, the turn of hours,

      the bees’ rhyme from asphodel to zinnia.

      I counted fern-traced stones, sought

      the touch of green, its smell…

      Sometimes I spied the spill of contents

      from that abandoned coffin, left to rot: stained plate and cup,

      a faded garment—

      then forgot as small animals, born to delight, stirred and crept.

      They look like little marmots—first, the flowers

       and then the children. It is a dream of marmots.

      Then I crept from that rich garden

      and stood at the mountain limit, my eyes ached at the sky

      and opened to a glimpse of heaven,