Her Garden, 1968
Helen Wickes

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

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