What's Kept Alive - Aaron Caycedo-Kimura

[Larry Robinson]

 What's Kept Alive


She crunches her walker

              into the sea of pebbles

              surrounding the stepping-stones,



              tells me, This bush

              with flowers is Japanese.

              That one is too, but different.



              I hover close behind, ready

              with an outstretched arm

              as if to give a blessing.



              Pick that large weed

              near the lantern—by the roots—

              and throw it into the pail.



              My father planned and planted

              this garden fifty years ago—

              hidden behind the fence

              of their Santa Rosa tract home—



              but he’s gone now.

              She hires a hand to rake leaves,

              prune branches once a month.



              Soon she’ll be gone.

              I’ll sell the house,

              return to Connecticut.



              A stranger will buy it,

              become caretaker of the garden,

              but won’t know that from their



              San Francisco apartment

              my father transported

              the Japanese maple, cradled

              in a small clay pot —



              the momiji now guarding

              the north corner—

              and that my mother chided him

              for bothering with a dying shrub.


		 - Aaron Caycedo-Kimura