So many years
In my mother's garden
Were spent by her
Thinning the iris
Then all of us
Praised the blooms
In springtime.
For several years now
She has forgotten
Her need to tend
Her flowers.
Now the plants
Have moved beyond
Their careful borders.
A disarray of green
From seeds
Fallen from her bird feeder.
Strange twists
And shoots from
From the treasured
Birds fascination
Of mother as
She stares through
A darkened pane.

Illusion and means
To an end
Are common filigree
To a darker intent
Of happy.
It is sunny
Outside
And cold.

Spring bloomed
And wilted back
Into winter.
It will begin
A final thrust
At summer
In a few days.
A robin's egg
Lies broken
Beneath the tree.