A flower garden grows
behind towels and washcloths,
sunscreen, antiseptic and gauze.
From the intersection of a rough, board shelf
and harvest gold vertical stripes
peek saucer-sized pink roses
bordered by pale green ribbons and bows:
an early gaudiness
masked by later fashion
now in disfavor.
I recognize the old rose pattern
from previous work
in other rooms.
An artifact, some stray detail, always remains:
a further past hidden in attic alcove,
pantry, or where risers meet stair steps.
A torn note tucked in eternity’s pocket
asks, “Please remember the….”
And I wonder,
“What were they thinking?”