by Anne Zito

I believe when I visit this place
there is a little of her still here

as the sun climbs in the summer haze, I see my daughter in the garden
opening the gate, eyes large as beams

she floats above the trees in her dress of tiny daisies
her hair is golden leaves

icy winds sweep rain across the yard
she climbs the tree to look at a butterfly

my heart warms when buds blossom
her silhouette sweetens the air

I believe when I visit this place
there is a little of her still here.