A visit to Grandmother's house meant a tour
of her flower garden even before the food was
served. Her garden sported many varieties from
friends, neighbors or relatives. These walkabouts
were highlighted by her explanations of the history
and performance of each plant. My awareness of,
and growing love for, the miracle of earth's harvest
stems from those lazy strolls around the perimeter
of her yard while our stomachs growled, the roast
shriveled in the oven, and her words washed over
us in the heat of the mid-afternoon sun. My favorite
photo of Grandmother, she's offering a blossom to
my sister from one of her many rose bushes and her
voice lulls me anew as my memory board replays
the feel of clean air and sunshine and brings back
the fragrance of honeysuckle and roses.
(Swap Sonnet)
Azalea struts her bloom before the rose
in early spring, to follow jonquil pose
and steal respect from phlox' expanding plume.
Before the rose, azalea struts her bloom;
her fervor glows beneath a brilliant sky
and boldly sends a zealous battle cry
to power down the honor of the rose.
Beneath a brilliant sky, her fervor glows,
while rose's gift survives the touch of time.
Her tint, her scent gives hint of vintage wine
as petals stir, and memory board contrives
the touch of time, the rose's gift survives.
Azalea's burst of color fades to naught
yet rose's blush continues to be sought.
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