You were alive – so alive, so alive – so
flowers kept popping up where they were
least expected.  Sun, shade, didn’t matter..
So many bloomed that you remarked,
“Think they were going out of style.”
Visitors would point to the wisteria
that embroidered the skirt of a wood
that was visible from our deck and moan
that the plant was “bad to take over.”
“We LOVE wisteria!”  you would say.
“It’s as if God is weaving a tapestry
from green and purple thread.   Only put
it away when it’s time to get Autumn
to create one in shades of red and gold.
Love that and the ermine that drapes each
winter.  Have to choose,  wisteria’s my
fave.”  “Is kind of pretty,” the odd visitor
concedes. “Hardy, ‘at’s for sure.”   “Wish
I were as strong,” I remember you saying
a few months before you died.   Wisteria
hasn’t come back.   Mystery, some say.
Isn’t to me.   Plants,  like animals, know
when they are loved.  Love back!   I
am fond of wisteria, but you had a passion
for the plant.  Flowers nod all around you,
now, I  know.   W i s t e r i a. 

(c)  Phyllis Jean Green,  March, 2009
          All Rights Reserved