Blue Flower; Widow Road
The small blue flower I stopped and stooped to pick
on the way back from my morning walk
was called—what? I forgot.
Not cornflower, morning glory, or bluebell.
I knew its modest blossom and sweet smell
had often seen it
in some such cool damp spot
low to the ground and easy to walk past,
but in another state. Another life.
Hoping it would declare
itself in time, my mind
would peel a layer of cloud or blankness off,
I carried one sprig home.
I didn’t like not remembering its name.
The cool pale morning felt a little strange
in the wake of such a year of change:
love, transition, illness, patience,
more joy and sorrow stirred into our cup
than we could have thought.
Our cup full to the brim.
I didn’t want to spill a single drop.
Later that day the name
came back: Forget-Me-Not.