In June I hope for black-eyed susans—two
rows blooming outside my bedroom window.
In October she brought tall buckets filled
with black earth from the banks of the deer pond-
"they'll grow in most any soil, but they
like this best." Together on hands and knees,
unconcerned with damp grass and muddy hands,
she showed me the secret of making homes
for yellow flowers. And I, more intrigued
by her delicate handling of root
and petal, simply nodded when she asked
if I wanted to try. Next summer we
will fill baskets with wildflowers—wood
sorrel, cinquefoil and Queen Anne's Lace.
She will tell me their names again as we
walk through the open meadow past the marsh,
back to the deer pond. And I will forget
again, enraptured by this woman who holds
within her hands, the secrets of women and flowers.
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