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The Stamen and the Stigma
Grandma had a garden
that she carefully tended to
she talked to her fruits and veggies
as she made her walk through
On this particular day
my hardball went astray
landed smack in the middle
of her green garden inlay
Swiftly yet gently
she grasped me by the hand
proceeded to give me
a helluva righteous reprimand
all the yellow flowering blossoms
among the numerous rows of squash
'twas the only female producer
that my hardball had hit so harsh
My curiosity drawn to this enigma
If I wanted to eat
I learned I should take care of the stigma
My curiosity drawn to this enigma
If I wanted to eat
I learned to take care of the stigma
All the fine yellow blossoms
packed full of staunch sticky stamen
Ya'll it meant nothing a'tal
without the proud stigmas pheromone call
After that haphazard day
We often walked through her garden that May
I began to look at life in a gratuitous way
She would coax and water and sing
to that injured blossom
each and everyday
Yes that 'ol she bud began to wilt
I was filled with tremendous guilt
Stubbornly Grandma persisted
Though I was tempted to resist
Compassionately I assisted
Come morning dew
We witnessed fruit
Her squash gave birth that day
"The wilt was labor pains "
"Such is motherhood," she'd say
My curiosity drawn to this enigma
If I wanted to eat
I learned to take care of the stigma
My curiosity drawn to this enigma
If I wanted to eat
I learned how to take care of the stigma
Copyright ©
Donna Roberts
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