Summer of Leaving

We wander into your garden.  
You gather zinnias for me
to celebrate, to mark absence,
in a few weeks, your daughter and mine
will leave home.
 
Magenta    maize    orange   coral,
the petals chubby fingers
curling   opening   grasping. 
 
You say: 
you must cut them back, 
so they will grow.
 
Under a parasol,
you pick white phlox for my bouquet,
dark red-purple gladioli.
 
Heat makes everything buoyant.
We float on summer.
 
You cut the top of a milk carton, fill it
with water 
for my long journey home.