My father, at age 83 and walking with a walker
asked my sister to stop at the garden center
so he could pick out three primrose plants--
one deep yellow, one indigo, and one of the brightest rose.
With my sister's help he planted them by his garden gate
where he would see them every time he looked out the window.
He did not get to see the flowers the following spring;
he rested with them beneath the winter's snow.
The primroses returned to bloom and bloom again
and Dad's memory, like those bright flowers
shines each time I see a primrose
blooming by a garden gate.