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.