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Poem

The delicate iris, long may it wave
   through sun and rain, its blues to rave.
   ...rave on.

The steadfast rose, our eyes it pulls,
   with reds so vivid, layers full.
   ...majestic always.

The varied and simple zinnia, sprites
   with many friends. Many lights.
   ...countless colors.

The bellowing petunias in June.
Trumpeting its visual tune.
   ...sun lovers.

The sturdy pansie, defying its name.
Withstanding cold. Gaining fame.
   ...dying never.

And the violet snapdragon, arriving first.
Mid-March, attention its thirst
   ...sweet aroma.

Of all these little soldiers in her garden,
   one outnumbered all.
Some stood short, some tall.
    ...she ruled.

She drew the butterflies, many friends
   came calling, homage paid,
   her nectar pungent, unafraid.
   ...blinding, bold.

O'er all the troops, she reigned.
Her yellows, truth foretold.
Brightest in the fold.
   ...the wondrous marigold.

More times than any other,
   the favorite of my Mother.
More times the dinner's label.
Center of the table.
   ...the wondrous marigold.

Still to this day I see them,
   and wish to go and free them,
   from their tiny plastic cell.
   ...the wondrous marigold.

And still, I dream of that fair garden,
    where love would surely smother
    me with hugs from Mother.
   ...my wondrous, loving Mother.
   ...my loving marigold.

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