Rearrangement

Here in another country 
is the garden shed of my daughter. 

Here is the shelf of antique pitchers,
the leaning broom,
the stem-scattered table, 
the sharp snips and twine 
for the composing of dahlias.

Here her deft hands make bouquets
for the roadside stand, 
the weekend brides. 

All that is here now, and myself gazing, 
came from before. 

The retrospection of old age. 
If, almost, she had not been born!

The pinching back of my life in bud 
was, also, 
a slowly opening bestowal. 

And myself here at her table,
arranging words
as she comes, laden, 
from the flower field.