I moved it inside.

The plant by the pool, neglected and uncertain of thriving, the one with the succulents and stones.

I’d planted it meticulously remembering, “not too deep, room for roots to grow, break up the roots and soak it all down good, but don’t beat them to death with water …then leave it alone”.

I took the time, finally to use her pot

thinking it’d be my focus, my tribute and yet it was barely making it now midsummer.

So, I brought it inside, the succulents in the broken-edged pot.

The shallow dish planter from my mama’s deck, its edges crumbled and broken off in chunks, still I’d kept it all these years.

It sits nearby now, beginning to live again brightly.

Vivid green, sprigs of new and thriving of what was planted before.

It must be the choice of spot, the repositioning or perhaps just the noticing of need, my giving an honored spot close by.

Or maybe, the remembering of being cherished and loved again.

Moved closer now, close as possible to remember her love.

Remembering her hands in dirt, seasoning in the pots and icing on the cakes.