That funny bush with the orange berries
That I found tucked in a nursery corner
Was her birthday gift many decades ago
And became another treasure of uniqueness, much like that of her own.
Or the specimen discovered from the zoo
When she found the groundskeeper
And pleaded to give her a cutting
To grow with her collection of rare finds and vagabond species too.
Perhaps the devil’s tongue would be it
That bloomed in the closet each Winter
With a stink much worse than her smokes
And a tropical canopy outside in summer: uniquely placed in the Midwest.
Surely she would be planted on the hill
Where the orange pavers from Woodstock days
Used to mark the side door to the home
Laden with so many memories and metal trash cans covering some of them too.
Oh I’ll bet she’s still out there somewhere
For her ashes got sprinkled into the earth
Forever mixed with the fruit of her hands
And beautiful gardens, a spa, some whimsy, all in squared borders of suburban fare.
Oh mom, how I miss you this day
As I tend to my own soil and dig
Preparing for Spring flowers and food
Adding amendments, turning it over again until everything crumbles just right.
One plant in particular we share
From your garden and mine:
Those “bee bush” perennial sedum
That you made me edge around in the hot summer sun by back-breaking hand!
Oh how you would love
To see me hail a sharpened spade
Defining my borders so clean with
Just one more bed added most years ’cause it’s also a passion for me borne from you.
Maybe the climbing Baffin rose
I will dedicate to you, Rose Anne:
A rambler, a bit wild yet beautiful
Yes this you shall be in my garden scrapbook come alive where you and me will always meet.
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