Forsythia

yellow petals on the wet walkway near the door where dead letters lie
while forsythia hunches inside counting marble memories from a jar
they popped up everywhere
the ghostly white orb in the grass at granddad’s funeral
the crazy-quilt agate like a mexican blanket rootled from the sand
on her honeymoon
the cat’s-eye after the stillbirth
and the swirling blue and white sphere she found the day
the rock who was the world slipped away

— IAN ALLABY

(Originally published Christmas, 1998.)