74: My Mother’s Garden

She inherited her mother’s green thumb
which means that no matter the soil
or sun, shadow, or rain,
she can grow anything.
Can make any plant come to life
and thrive.
“See that dogwood tree right there?” she asks.
“When Robin gave that to me,
it was about 3 inches tall
and in this little ole’ pot.
And now just look at it.”
I do look,
but I can’t see the top
because it’s too high.

Iris are her favorite flowers,
though she fancies roses
and sunflowers, too.

She likes to share her plants with others
and grow plants from seeds.
This morning we walk through her backyard
looking at what’s faded
what is still green and growing
what I might want to bring up the mountain.
She tells me on of Walter’s favorite jokes,
but I can’t remember it now.
Something about two men, one wife, and honesty.

She climbs up and over and through
her backyard,
her right knee now hugely swollen
and infected from the fall she took
three weeks ago in front of the GNC store.
“Thank goodness she didn’t hit her face,”
her friend Mama Helen tells me.

“I need to snip off some Mexican Lavender,”
Mother says. “I had some that was doing just fine,
but the men who pressure washed the house
killed it, so I need to start over.”
I like to try to root things,” she tells me.
“Some things take root, others don’t.”

~~~~~~~

And from my garden, The Daily Dahlia: