Just in time for a summer wedding
the white hydrangea bloomed.
Both guest and greeter beside the mailbox
it grew from the gravel of decades of winters
plowed to the side of the road. Each white
puff a bridal bouquet, doubled in number
of blossoms this year at the time of the first
anniversary, with an added blossom
of the couple’s own: a baby girl, born.
Dr. Frankenstein you name yourself
as you piece together a 1930 Ford.
Like a patchwork quilt, piece by piece
from bumper to bumper you build.
Books with photos and diagrams
lie open around the house for reference
with stacks of magazines always at hand
for the images of crankcase and fender
you need; for the names and addresses
of dealers of car parts. When you spoke
to a friend long-distance, you mentioned
you’d adopted a car. That said it all.
As you enter the woods, there––
There I want my memorial service.
As you enter the woods, go up
the rise. Then stand there.
There is where I’ll be
waiting for you to enter the woods
to be lost, then found
by the hunter/gatherer of souls
who will carry us
through the woods together
then on into the fields of heaven.
Let the book fall open where it will.
There, your direction for the day.
Deaths listed on the left.
On the right, the title page:
The New Testament
begins here today as
The Renewed Testament.
From this day forward
what you write will be
for better, for worse
for richer, for poorer
in sickness and in health
my life being lived as a woman’s
life is lived on the planet now.