I search her face across a hemisphere,
embark on one more journey:

Will you come?

She’s ready with the thermos,
wearing her brown gardening-shoes,
her glasses slipping forward on her nose.

Says she’s been planting dahlias
to make a summer show,

a new display for the place
she calls her Park.

Over the cloudbank it’s candescent,
close. I dare her to keep up with me.

She shuffles answers
to fit my questions. We float,

almost sisters
in the glide of it.