Aunt Susan
Today, when her cuckoo clock strikes
the hour, it reminds me of being with
her again, back in the garden where
dandelions grew with a hint of yellow
streaming through the air, where she
still waits, lounging in her old plastic
chair, a cigarette in her right hand.
And the clappers dangle and clang
from the golden chain counting hours
with a pause in eternity and the time before
she left. When we’d walk to the river,
our feet wet over the smooth pebbles,
both of us reaching below the coolness
of ripples as we’d hollow the waves for toads,
tipping our glass jars into the water.
We’d watch them swim in, only for us
to free them again, where she taught
me, there is joy in the act of letting go.