“This Is Why We Have All These Things,”

she said, cherish being
what she conveyed

in her voice, her hands
lifted in praise,

fanning her fingers
like the fronds of a fern,

raindrops dipping each
green semblance of a hand

cradling treasures
passed down mother to daughter,

some grandmother’s legacy
displaced on a yard-sale table,

the dusty shelf of a
second-hand purgatory

she harrows of despair,
bathing each

in the waters of renewal,
raised to prominence

reclaimed. “I keep you,”
she whispers,

making room, always,
for one more.

for Katrina