Wildflowers in Bloom
This little alley between the weather-worn fence
and concrete-blue shingles at the side of the house
is guarded by an old wood trellis, foggy-red paint peeling
tangled with fuzzy-leafed vines of blue-purple morning glories—
My morning glories.
An enormous fern spreads its feathery fronds, a gate
across the tough cobblestone path, lined by
two rows of sunflowers, towering, blocking out the sky
beacons for shimmering dragonflies and plump honeybees—
And for me.
These messy morning glories and too-tall sunflowers
have no place in my mother’s garden, but they are my joy.
The weeds she laments, sprouting thickly in the cracks
are my wildflowers—sunny dandelions, grape hyacinths, mini-pansy violas—
But her obstacle.
But there are no dragonflies in Mother’s garden
And I wonder if she would have seen the wildflowers and the secret gate
If she hadn’t been thinking of hydrangeas, tomatoes, and weeds.