Poet’s Choice
3rd Place

I think of her,
how she loved plants,
had a hospital where marigolds
could recover from caterpillars
eating their leaves down to the ribs,
the way cancer consumed her.
After brain surgery
she was out watering gardens,
tripped on the hose and fell,
joked about it on the phone.

I see her in sunshine
deadheading flowers,
trying not to worry about
who would take care of her.

She died in the hospital
looking forward to going home,
seeing the fuchsia plant
her husband had hung
outside her bedroom window.

In my yard daisies grow wild.
I leave them alone,
let them invade at will.
They are benign.