The bulb Carolyn gave you years ago
rose between three boulders
where we lay the headless rattler
to get young Katy
to pay attention—
running, dancing,
always on her toes.
Her shriek and cry
cut to our souls.
Huge, bright-orange petals,
like tongues aflame
among adolescent coals—
Summer Solstice,
105 degrees—
saved to the shade
on the cold woodstove
to bloom for days,
to hold my eye
and expose
a slice of memory.
drycrikjournal 