Sandra Giedeman

We watch the gardener arc the hose
carelessly washing away the work
of mud sparrows, hornets and wasps.
Nests studded with the white eggs
in the intricate catacombs they constructed
under the eaves of the hotel.
A single red flower sways near our table.
My mother planted a crooked row
of tulips that color
from the corner of our house to the street
when we all still spoke to one another.
When we thought death happened to old people.
Not to our brother that beautiful boy
with the strawberry blond hair and the deep voice
who cried easily. Delicate collarbones
alabaster freckled skin.
My husband and I eat a bright salad
under an umbrella.
A hummingbird is close.
I hear the whir of his wings
as he divebombs
then hovers over my head.