At Night the Perfumes of the Angel Trumpets

At Night the Perfumes of the Angel Trumpets

reach me from the farthest corner
of Mother's garden. They remind me of prying open

the hinge of her wedding chest:
the perpetual scents welling up—

the white lace of her gloves
the delicacy of baby's breath.

A year after her death
her dearest flowers thrive:

lilies, clematis, daffodils. Tuberose.
"Take a whiff," she advised.

"Memories sustain you."
She was right. Even now as dresses

fly up on the clothes line
I savor the heliotrope's fragrance,

the vanilla scent of Mother's
favorite shampoo.