I am in a garden. 
There are flowers
everywhere.

Irises. My grandmother
on my mother’s side
grew irises.

Hers were purple.
These are blue.
Hers were ordinary.
These wear frills.
I want Grandmother’s.
I want her standing
beside.

Lady’s slippers.
Are they always pink,
I wonder. My mother-
in-law was good
with lady’s slippers.
They crowded around
the potting shed she
saw as a disgrace.
I try to see them
in my mind, but all
I see is her, handing
me seed, and smiling
with her eyes.

What are these flowers
that vine high and come
in blue and lavender
and rose? I remember
making dolls with them
when I was a child.
A back fence kept them
from falling. The skirts
on the dolls stood out
like the belles’ in Gone
With the Wind.

White and yellow daisies,
brown-eyed susans, sweet
peas, and little complicated
orange flowers I always
forget the name of, wave
and nod. Nothing is left
of the daffodils and tulips
but knife-like leaves, most
of which have gone brown
and lie waiting their turn
to feed cold ground
what it needs to produce
Spring.

You are in every petal,
stamen, pistil, and leaf.
I revel in your scent.
I listen to you breathe.
You are warm from being
in the sun. Your breath
is clean and sweet. You love
me. All you feel now, all
you see.

I am in a garden.
There are flowers
e v e r y w h e r e.

(c)  Phyllis Jean Green,  2010