Last winter we buried our cat
and planted a rose, Mr. Lincoln, above him.
The spot's too sunny, but the branches curl upward
spreading stunted, yellow-green leaves
and some velvet red buds, now and then.
Dusty's rose has flowers, my daughter reports.
We consigned him to the earth and recall him with the blossoms
that struggle upward against the burn of the summer sun,
the bite of bugs.
Autumn wheels toward us again
promising small gifts of rain in return for the naked branches,
crisper wind. In the heat of summer
I see it coming, winding toward me through thorns shorn of their leafy camouflage.
My cat is growing a rose, my daughter tells me.
She's buried two of them now, side by side in the garden.
I remember the earth as it fell, my daughter tossing handfuls,
dirt sifting into the matted fur.
I'm good at burying cats, she said.
I watch the summer sky for streaks of winter
preparing my heart for loss
teaching it to feel what the mind already sees.
Perhaps I will plant a rose when you are gone.
8/15/96