April, May, June 1997

A.N. Padrón April, May, June 1997

Remember the time we made flower crowns for the dogs and walked them

through the yard saying they were married and how perfect they must be

or the time we made a farm from pulled weeds and ripped leaves for dollars

so we could pay the price a pound of marigolds fetched in the tool shed market

take me to the hidden place beneath the piano where a chord of three strands

wasn’t easily broken and help me relearn the pattern for a string bracelet

so I can retie the thread that came loose when Chip and Goldie died Mom sold our piano and the flowers shriveled in their pots.