My mother, Anna Gibson, was a prestidigitator.
The neighbors always swore that even heaven’s
garden couldn’t compare with hers.
Sometimes in the early morning when e’ryone
was asleep, I’d grab a quilt that Mama made,
and go lay out in her miniature flower farm.
I’d close my eyes and let my body be drenched in the
fragrance of her hard work that outlined each petal.
Mama loved giving her flowers just
as much as she loved growing them.
Every time she’d call upon other fine ladies,
she’d make sure to bring a bouquet for them.
Sometimes she’d leave flowers on doorsteps –
but they’d always know they were from her.
Papa called her his Elegant Rose.
So when Papa died, Mama put a bouquet
of her best roses in his smooth, oak casket.
And those roses – those elegant roses –
were almost as lovely as she