The rhubarb leaves are green, and green to the edges.

They are someone else’s indelicate hands, firm and broad

with a robust splintering of veins, kinetic wrinkles

shifting at diagonals, their riverbend contours blindly drawn.

They maintain a breezeblown dignity, bob politely

and resume their sprawled repose. And tucked below –

the blush-sheen of the stalk! The tall throats rising pink

and silky red from the dusty soil, deepening ruby

until July’s sunworn decay. The leaves grow pale and rimmed

with crisp brown rot. They soften; I think of my grandmother’s cheek.

Yellowed and weepy, they wilt against each other

like grieving friends, verdant lives in sweet decline.