Bachelor’s buttons, black-eyed Susans,
Queen Anne’s lace and baby’s breath;
my mother loved great swathes of riotous colors,
threaded leaves, seed heads bent by hungry finches.

She never bothered with hybrid teas or
careful chrysanthemums,
boring rows of marigolds and petunias.

In tiny towns with manicured lawns and
spindly evergreens, she filled beds with mounds
of sticky, swollen peonies,
let wild roses climb the windowsills.

When it was time, my mother
gathered buckets and tubs, cardboard
boxes lined with black garbage bags.
She dug it all up:
flag iris, daylilies, coneflowers, bee balm,
Sweet William, tickseed and feverfew.

While the truck filled with beds and chairs,
foot stools, dishes, linens and books,
blankets, clothes, curtains and dolls;
she filled the station wagon
with her flowers,
covered with damp newspapers and rags.
And in the next town, she planted again.

– Hannah Humphrey