Sandy

Where her ashes sank exactly I cannot remember,
somewhere in the Monterey Bay between Paradise Point
and Sunset Beach, not odd because she could not swim.
Soil was her province, and forget-me-nots
her favorite flower, those four-week soft blue blooms
dotting our walk like earthly stars, seeds
that would stick to socks and shoelaces
to travel and embed in another soil.

She gave us seeds to bloom in our garden,
and I have spread those infant forget-me-nots
down by the creek walk nestled amid ferns
and wild blackberries during the viral sequester,
and in the next three springs have watched them
root and spread, how people brushed
against the stems and scattered the seeds
until the whole walk is now dotted with blue.

This is her fitting tribute, a small quiet beauty,
which is how she lived, not with the brassy blare
of rhododendrons or aspirations of foxgloves
spiking into the air, just these little stars
at our feet grasping to take hold, to stick to our clothes,
our shoes, to tell us we are luckier than we think.

Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California, with his wife. He has contributed previously to Big Windows Review, Willows Wept Review, Heartwood, and Williwaw Journal.