In the garden, she cups petal fingers
beneath the fluttering cherry tree.
Pink snow, Granny!
Under a baby-blue sky, bunches
parachute and drift. Nature’s confetti falls
adagio on tissue-soft hair.
Later she holds her wee sister’s hand,
swirls en pointe through my home.
The radio’s tempo taps our toes.
I recall my Mammy rolling back
the rug, setting our floor free for dancing.
I laugh and kick my slippers off.
By Finola Scott