When you have a rabbi for a daughter
sometimes you get texts from the hearse.
You must have known what I was doing:
reminding myself that I still had a mother,
bracing against -- well, now: not being able
to reach you to talk about purses or friends
as the cemetery's energy slowly drained.
Dear Mom, I'm wearing the same black suit
I wore to your funeral. As for purses
I'm carrying the one you gave me last year,
bright yellow like the forsythia flowers
that are curled now in hidden potential,
waiting for the time to bloom.
I wish you still had time to bloom.