My Mother's Garden
Before I moved away, I didn’t know
their names. Blurred palette
of bright. She knelt or bent,
tethered among the stems.
Of course I’ve seen it since.
What had been a skirt of white
now a crinoline of alyssum
bedded along the edge. What had been
frilled rockets tipped with rain
now delphinium in need of staking.
O hollyhock, how could I have missed
your non-preening countenance?
Sentinel of the far back corner,
placid above the fray.
All of it sings when I listen. Scent,
if nothing else. Peonies nod
until I reach to cup one,
lower my self down.
Micki Blenkush is the author of Now We Will Speak in Flowers published by Blue Light Press. She was selected as a 2017-2018 fellow in poetry for the Loft Literary Center’s Mentor Series program and is a 2015 & 2019 recipient of grants awarded through the Central MN Arts Board, funded through the McKnight Foundation. Micki’s writing has appeared in numerous journals including: Josephine Quarterly, Typishly, Cagibi, and Crab Creek Review. She lives in St. Cloud, Minnesota and works as a social worker. mickiblenkush.com
See more of her work in 3.1 and 4.3 and 5.2 and 6.1 and 6.3 and 7.2 and 9.1 and 9.1 and 9.1