A grain of this sandy soil
falls from its constellation
pressed into my palm, this universe
of light, flesh, and grit.
I reach into the bucket, grasping
for more, for some clue:
What could possibly grow from this
flux, this shimmering dirt?
Wild flowers, maybe,
like those I picked this morning
along Bloom Road, of all places,
where you grew up, a gift, and wonder,
now, if they live on at the root
or wither with the bloom.
With soiled hands
I try to firm this shifting earth,
imagining a Lady Slipper seed
stirring like a dark star on the verge
beneath the press of my palms,
and with a gardener's pat
I commit your ashes,
and our last touch.
—Grant Adams, Grand Marais, MN