Tomatoes like plump buttons
sit amid the swollen lettuce leaves
and a splattery batch of colored peppers,
the salty whiff of blue-veined cheese—
Such abundance! I think
when my friend leans in
chin over her iced tea,
her eyes blue pearls, and insists
God should have taken her,
old and childless, and not her neighbor,
whose grandchildren dig in the dirt,
plant crimson tulips that now burn
along her fence line.
I want to say the right thing, but
instead I am a witness to her bargaining with God.
I want to say, Behold the mysteries
seize what you are given
go forth with a grateful heart
as if I know better.
Remember that the children replant, I add.
When she says, But from the moment
we are born life is merely
a pattern of losses,
I am light growing dimmer
and then in deep shadow, like
a closed flower.
