The flower bed is empty now;

the spring flight and summer brood
will find no treasure there

like thieves on the Via Maris
who robbed the holy family

only to find Mary’s purse
full of bright yellow florets,

or like a matriarch waiting in vain

for her house to regather
as blossoms around a pewter icon,

to pose for one last family photo,
to show up for a few small repairs.

I imagine my mother in the garden,
her bare feet surrounded by gold.