by Kathi Wolfe
You detected pretentiousness
the way a gardener pulls out weeds.
You championed understatement
the way your Yankees win
the World Series year after year.
Knowing you're gone, I long
to crush the sunflowers
nesting in the vase on my coffee table.
What right do they have to be so peaceful,
without tears, when you had to box
with the Grim Reaper light years
before you wanted to enter the ring?
I don't know why birds sing,
dogs bark or lovers quarrel,
let alone why diseases spread
or wars never end.
I only know:
every time the Yankees bat,
an outsider knocks on the door,
or a sunflower blooms,
I'll think of you.