We’re not strangers here —
forget-me-nots raise blue heads
all along the path.

Creeping buttercup
stitched with things not to forget,
the source of it all.

Voices of birds float
above true forget-me-nots,
yellow buttercup.

Don’t forget my face,
the life I was trying for—
the poems I wrote.

Silken, like a bloom,
the stream of forget-me-nots,
in earliest spring.