Emily Grosholz

What will I miss when I'm gone? The squeak of the wheelbarrow's wheel, Grace note that strikes with every slow Revolution, and then the hushed, rusty Answer in triplets from the invisible Bird in the lackluster maples. Branches, weeds, last autumn's leavings Raked from the moss-eaten pads, beds, Borders, still untrimmed hedges. Also the silent pale blue bells Of my half dozen borage, ringed, Self-seeded from the woods. Daylilies my mother liked to set Roadside in June. Pale Greek anemones She never traveled far enough To find wild, as I did once or twice, but Maybe I'll bring her some, if over there Windflowers blow beside a cloudy sea.