Yahrzeit Elegy

By Ronald Pies

It is your yahrzeit, Mother,
  but I say no Kaddish.
It is a year
  since the nurse’s
final call, 
  when I was fixed
in my fear
  like a bug
caught in amber.
                                   
Now, in metered penance,                           
  I force myself
to remember:
   your breath sounds
sharp as potshards
   while I mouthed
poor good-byes
  long-distance.

It is your yahrzeit, Mother,
  and I light no candle,
nor claim any right
  to your forgiveness.  

But tomorrow
  I will cull
from our garden
  a Flame Azalea,
your favorite flower,
   and caress
the orange petals
   as blessing.