Globus Cruciger

Outside the cinder block screen

past fig tree and laurel shade

hydrangeas turn whiter

than handkerchiefs and blouses on the line

than azaleas and snowdrops 

snowballs

and farther back whiter

than memory’s blanc—

orb in the royal infant’s hand—

mother’s flower and now

in wet summer bluer 

than her madonna 

violet as wounds

wine-dark globular 

galaxies hurtle away 

rubbing her forehead 

that translucent crown

as she sits at the kitchen table.