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My Grandmother's Pot Plants

Against the side fence, four long planks of wood ascended like steps supported on pillars of old red bricks serving as a stand for my Grandmother's collection of potted plants. Cuttings from exotic species gifted by friends, passed down family heirlooms harboring memories of past lives, feathery ferns and plump bellied cacti battled South Australian frosty winters and the baking heat of a summer sun. All throughout my childhood they were sustained by love, flowering on the cue of seasons and erupting into green in a yearly miracle of renewal. I had this odd notion that each plant found root and drew from a medium beyond mere soil, that a strange symbiosis existed between plant and a human soul. Not one succumbed to heat or cold or fell victim to disease. They grew as a constant, helping to hold up a wall that gave a safe and solid perimeter to our lives. When my Grandmother died, they died too - at first escaping notice in the shadow of her passing. It was later when bare spaces drew attention to their absence and added to the list of what was missed. Time heals grief but memory excavates the loss.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2025




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Date: 3/8/2025 1:52:00 AM
Wow Paul, my mind started cascading backwards in time and recognising familiar things like a stack of bricks that held something more than it's functional intent. There was an old Belfast sink with... Ahh what was it... It must have been alpines and a table with a replaced top of plywood just for the garden... Then the tool drawer, which was dangerous to put your hands in but I liked looking through it... Then all of it, plus much more was gone. I love the idea of plants connecting people...
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Paul Willason
Date: 3/13/2025 10:01:00 PM
Oh how our minds are full of bric-a-brac....fun to sift through, pick up and inspect, lt the associated feelings surface. This is what poetry is good at..trying to bring to life what is filed away in the vaults of memory, reliving the important etc. Thankyou DD for giving the poem a little bit of yr lovely mind. Valued
Date: 3/8/2025 1:30:00 AM
What a fantastic final line, Paul. I use to have beautiful gardens but apartment living has reduced my tending to potted plants that require indirect sunlight. I miss getting my hands dirty.
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Paul Willason
Date: 3/13/2025 10:09:00 PM
The last line is what it all turns on...thanks Lin for commenting and giving it yr time. Gardens can mirror our own souls in a way, places to retreat to, renew, find rest. You may be deprived of space for plants but your garden now, I would respectfully point out, is your poetry and that covers an impressive area. You tender it well dear Lin.

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