Bulb and Seed

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Bulb and Seed
By Taylor Graham

The old dogs are blooming where we planted
them with daffodils, the lemon-yellow heads
nodding this March afternoon, with ruffs
as bright as egg yolk. I name them
to remember: Lady-Bear and Pepper, Roxy,
Pattycake. The old lady-dogs are blooming
from green mounds that never quite settled,
no more than memory ever lies still.
They're blooming gold and eggshell white.
And see -- a toyon sprig we never planted
rises at the edge of clearing, the only
red-berry toyon on this ridgetop, whose seed
a bird must have dropped in passage.
When snow heaps these mounds, the old
ladies will be blooming Christmas-berries
red as dog tongues, damp as the memory
of old dogs dead.