For Sarah Higinbotham
Behind stone walls
There is a garden.
She tends and prunes
bare-handed,
open-hearted.
Standing in her shadow
Violets do not shrink,
Roses refuse to wilt.
The living words on her lips
Quench atrophied buds,
Never too far from daylight and
Closer to purpose
For sprouting from her hand.
She tells old stories full of magic,
whispering road maps
To dusty cracks in mortar.
Seedlings tendril through
New life dances out
Along the winds of space and time.
She teaches blossoms to color the world
With vibrancy and vibration.
When I am gone,
I hope I am remembered and reseeded
from the roots that were formed and fed
By the sunlight from her garden.
