The pinks

My mother’s pink azaleas / Photo: Jan Haag

I always think of you as the blue gal,
drawn toward turquoises and teals,

even a soft baby blue. And today under
a spring-blue sky, I made my way out

to what was your house to drop off gifts
for your descendants who have made it theirs,

only to step out from what was your car
and look up into the pinkiest pink

of your dogwood tree, under which
the babiest pink of azaleas bloomed.

In your final couple of springs, when so
much of you was vanishing, I would come

in the house, saying, “Ma, the dogwood
is blooming.” And you’d brighten

then slowly come down the garage steps
and make your way to the front yard,

looking up into the mass of blooms.
Unable to see the petals, you’d nod

at the pinks, inhale the blue above,
as I did today, not needing to see it,

but stand under it, luxuriating in
the hues of the season,

absorbing all the love.

My mother’s pink dogwood tree / Photo: Jan Haag