Cathy Smith Bowers

I collect them now, it seems. Like sea-shells or old thimbles. One for Father. One for Mother. Two for my sweet brothers. Odd how little they require of me. Unlike the ones they were sent in memory of. No sudden shrilling of the phone. No harried midnight flights. Only a little water now and then. Scant food and light. See how I’ve brought them all together here in this shaded space beyond the stairs. Even when they thirst, they summon me with nothing more than a soft, indifferent furl- ing of their leaves.