Her Garden, 1968
Helen Wickes
It seemed unkind that day,
her sudden anger
about one flowersomething
yellow, something
casually wanted,
while we walked together,
chatting about the world,
and when that flower
didnt instantly yield
was quickly twisted
until stem and blossom
severed, were wrenched
free. She was old and spoke
in that blunt Kentucky voice,
Youll never do that
again. Youll sharpen
shears, make a clean cut;
cant you hear that flower
screaming at you, no, I said,
then, I cant. Flowers are
forever, she said, you are not.
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