Dogwood

from Field Stones
by Robert Kinsley

Blossoms filled my mother's head for
years she wanted one to grow in her yard.

Each spring she'd dig in the rocky soil
near the sandstone quarry behind my uncle's house,

where dogwoods sprung up like children
pink and white, their sweet smell in the air.

Year after year she'd spade the soil
balling the tree as large as she could

then carry it home, buckets of extra soil
to fill the hole in the yard though it never

did, each dogwood living only a year or two, my
mother grieving the empty space as if it were a grave.