all grown up

i planted my first garden: rows and rows of bright impatiens, lemon sage, yellow lemon thyme, basil and basil and basil. i feel like i have seven new boxes of children--i want them to grow and be in the sun and drink up rain. i find myself sneaking out between meals and chores to chat with my posies, to tell them to be strong and listen to the songs of robins and cardinals in love.

all my warm summer memories have my mother in her wide brim hat, watering her flowers, talking to them, sitting on the porch and enjoying their charm in the evening. she can make anything grow: she saved my african violet, she rescued my cactus, she coaxes zinnias as tall as your hips.


i will tell my flowers the story of my mother. i will tell them how high they can grow. i will tell them they are beautiful and smart. i will tell them why i can't sit on the porch in their glow without poking a few tears out the corners of my eyes.