Standing in the garden, feet planted
hip-width apart, bent at the waist over
an abundance of ripe raspberries, snacking
directly from the branches, smacking
the sweet—I remember my vow to skip
buying flowers for my pots
this year. In protest. If my beloved sister
is going to be given this diagnosis,
is going to be in pain, I’m not bringing beauty
into the universe. This cruel universe conspires
against us. Still, I drove to the nursery to look.
Picked out pink caladiums with green-edged
leaves, stained-glass coleus, regal red and fuschia,
purslane, with its spongy leaves and jewel-colored
petals—and nasturtiums, already trailing
from their too-small containers, tender buds ready
to burst tangerines and peaches. At the register,
I add bee bright red penta for the butterflies
and the hummingbirds. Just for today, I say
out loud. I load the car with new plants and flowers.