Day 233

I am thinking
of Abubaker’s yellow rose,
wondering if it’s still blooming, if others
have opened around it, if its fragrance
is stronger than the stench of death.
I am thinking of what grows
in soil fertilized by corpses.  I am thinking
of everything buried under everything
that has fallen, of mothers
finding an arm, a leg
of their child, identifying it
by how it’s clothed: the last
shoe, the last color, the last
zip of the zipper, buttoning of the button.
The last slipping on of the t-shirt 
over the small head, the instant 
of darkness and then more
darkness.  I am thinking about walking
today with Joanna, still sturdy
at 95. How
we came to a garden abundant
with yellow roses.  How I told her
about Abubaker as we 
leaned into the rosebush, breathed
deeply, saying whatever came close
to a blessing on his survival,
and on yellow, on softness
of petal, steadfastness
of seed, root, stem.