Springhouse

There’s an idea bouncing off

The inner walls of my skull

I can’t tell if it’s marinating or fermenting

Sometimes it feels like it’s spoiling

The power went out in the kitchen again

Luckily, I had the foresight to

Build a springhouse next to the garden

Where Grandfathers’ Mountain cool stream

Runs by, actually, it’s more like a brisk walk today

A light job by the mason jars

Painted and decorated by an artist never commissioned

Her dying wish for her sketchbook

To be cremated with and alongside her

But her calligraphic brushstrokes

Live on the mason jars of confitures

And the dogwood flowers bloom brighter

Around the artwork she so passionately painted

Next to the secret compartment that opens

To a columbarium filled with love poems

I never had the courage to share

Which will also be cremated with me