Gardens

December 23, 2008
By
My mother needed flowers to fill her expensive glass vase,
She looked down upon me, a fake smile on her face.
“Go to the garden and bring some back, only the best will do.”
I set out, eager to fulfill her wish, to where our flowers grew.

I brought back a bouquet of daffodils, pleased with their bright yellow hue.
Their centers resembles little bells, surely my mother would love them too.
But she sent me back to the garden, wanting something different,
So I threw away the daffodils, and back to the flowerbeds I went.

I brought back a bouquet of alliums, their subtle purple buds so small,
Their stems so long and healthy, my mother would love them all.
But she sent me back to the garden, wanting something different,
So I threw away the alliums, and back to the flowerbeds I went.

I brought back a bouquet of dahlias, liking how the many petals shined,
The layers were great for my mother’s vase; she’d think they were quite divine.
But she sent me back to the garden, wanting something different,
So I threw away the dahlias, and back to the flowerbeds I went.

I lay down among the petals, the hibiscus and ivy,
I stared at the jasmine and for once I could see:
It would never matter what flowers I found,
What living beauty I pulled from the ground,
My mother would never be happy with the things I had done,
It finally made sense when she’d wished not for me, but a son.





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