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Parents in poetry. My mother in flower

My mother in middle age has become the queen Of annuals and perennials. Her backyard Is all garden with a narrow strip Of grass between impatiens and the house For my mother to walk, dragging the hose or carrying Her gardening tools, or bug spray, or the scissors She uses to cut flowers for bouquets. For sport, she visits Greenhouses, or stalks shrubbery with the patience Of a cat after mice. The scarlet lilies Are my mother's pride as they spread each year Down the garden with their blood-red trumpets, but she loves Hydrangeas and frost-frail annuals as well. She has asked if this year I can winter Geraniums in my south window. She's afraid They won't all fit into her small house.

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