My Grandmother writes of her garden

wallflowers & cornflowers

from early April showers

like beautiful wounds healing across te bed

from blue to purple to dark pink

to light pink to white

& then geraniums in May

But she cannot see the geraniums

She writes of her garden

from the cool of the cellar

where she cannot see zinnias explode

with life or blood-red roses

contrasting the portulacas' flesh

An armored vehicle is sowing shells

(not cockle shells) broken glass

between the rows of flowers

She writes of her garden

not so much of the British Consul

asking missionaries

south of the Yellow River

to evacuate to Hankow

but of yellow marigolds

& hollycocks

& Japanese sunflowers for the house